


Mirage

by Kitmistry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Detective Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mirage (Durante La Tormenta) AU, Murder, Mystery, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Strangers to Lovers, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: Α man and a boy in the same room twenty five years apart, two identical storms and a murder that will tear both their families apart. When Castiel Novak wakes up to a new reality, it seems only Detective Dean Singer is willing to believe him, but even the detective might not be able to help him save his daughter from a butterfly effect that has changed their world irreparably.The race against time will bring them face to face with decisions that might cost them their lives and those of the people they love. And still, the storm rages on.
Relationships: Becky Rosen/Chuck Shurley, Castiel & Claire Novak, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Amelia Novak, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jo Harvelle/Anna Milton, Naomi/Chuck Shurley
Comments: 56
Kudos: 101
Collections: SPN Media Big Bang 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of me going down a rabbithole of spanish movies and tv series on netflix. I'll admit that, for a while there, I didn't have a social life, but on the bright side, you, my lovely readers, get a fic out of my obsession. Now, for this bang, I got the chance to work with the amazing [Bees Are Awesome](https://bees0are0awesome.tumblr.com/), who created the most beautiful art. I enjoyed working with her so much! Don't forget to give her all your love. You can find the art masterpost [here!](https://bees0are0awesome.tumblr.com/post/615754751717654528/some-digital-paint-for-kitmistry-s-awesome)
> 
> Shout-out to [theimportanceofbeingvictoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimportanceofbeingvictoria/pseuds/theimportanceofbeingvictoria) for helping me fix my plotholes, catching all my OOC moments, and being my beta. 
> 
> And now that my little speech is over... Lights, camera, action!

**1989**

**10:26 PM**

_We are talking about an electrical storm, which will extend over the east side Kansas. The great atmospheric instability will form different supercells in permanent rotation. We can predict that the unique phenomena will be particularly visible tonight, and they will remain for 72 hours, leading to strong downpours that may cause malfunctions with electronic devices and communications. Citizens are advised to remain at home for the duration of the storm to avoid…_

“Hey, Sammy!”

Sam looked up from where he was crouched in front of the old television, the weather man still droning on and on about the storm raging outside. His brother was leaning against the doorframe, a leather jacket three sizes too big for him thrown over an old sweater.

“Dad forgot his jacket again?” Sam asked, pushing himself up. He walked to the closet behind him, rummaging through the boxes in there until his fingers closed around the thing he was looking for: his camera. 

“Hey, I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Dean said. “He’s been gone for two hours already.”

 _That’s plenty of time for him to get drunk and stumble back home,_ was what he didn’t add, but Sam thought it anyway. It’d been a long time since he had believed Dean’s lies about their father, but that didn’t stop his older brother from trying to cover up for him. 

He dropped to his knees behind the television, quickly connecting the cables to his camera and setting it up to be ready for recording. The weather man was interrupted by a grey screen, and Sam hit the TV to fix it. It was probably the storm messing with the signal. “And now you’re leaving, too?”

Dean shrugged. “Just heading to Ellen’s. She says she has some leftover stew for us.”

Gazing at Dean over his shoulder, Sam raised an eyebrow. “Did you tell her Dad forgot to feed us again today?”

“Hey, come on. He didn’t forget to feed us,” Dean tried, pushing away from the door to come closer. “He’s just… busy. And anyway I made mac n’ cheese, didn’t I? You love mac n’ cheese.”

“Yeah. It was great,” Sam agreed. There was no use blaming Dean for their father’s shortcomings. He knew that, even as young as he was. Dean tried his hardest to take care of him, and Sam would do anything in his power to keep his brother happy. Even eat mac n’ cheese cooked in the microwave for the third day in a row. At least their family friend, Ellen, was thoughtful enough to cook for them sometimes. Her cooking was always delicious and made Sam feel warm inside. He was looking forward to eating her stew for dinner tomorrow, even if it was reheated leftovers.

Examining the camera and the chair Sam was dragging in front of the television, Dean smiled. “You’re recording again tonight?”

“I’ve written a new story,” Sam said, face set as he positioned the chair just right. “The writing guide you got me says that you have to record yourself reading your stories and then replay it to see if it’s good. You’ll catch mistakes and awkward sentences easier that way.”

“Or you know, you can just read them to me.”

“You like everything I write, Dean. You’re not objective.”

“Wow, ‘objective’. Is that another big word that you found in your writing guide?” Dean teased him, ruffling his hair.

Shooing Dean’s hand away, Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m ten, Dean. I know plenty of big words. Weren’t you gonna leave?”

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” Dean stepped back, hands raised in surrender. “I’ll be back soon, okay? No more than half an hour, I promise.”

Finding an empty cassette in one of the boxes he’d dragged out of the closet, Sam turned to look at his brother. “Are you sure it’s smart to ride your bicycle in the middle of a storm?”

“Oh, come on. It’s not even raining yet.”

“Lightning strikes even without rain,” Sam said.

Dean shook his head, lips stretched in an amused smile. “I promise not to get hit by lightning, okay?”

“Just be careful, Dean.”

Dean waved a hand over his back, already walking towards the stairs. “I will. Don’t open the door for strangers.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“Sure, whatever. See you later, Sammy.”

The sound of his shoes faded slowly. Sam made his way over to the window overlooking the street in front of the house. Dean appeared on his bicycle only a few minutes later. He waved once more in Sammy’s direction without even looking up to see if he was really at the window, and then he was riding down the road.

Thunder growled overhead, as dark, threatening clouds clustered over Lawrence. The wind howled, raising goosebumps along Sam’s arms, and making the trees outside shiver. 

Sam watched Dean’s form until it disappeared around the corner. Then his eyes fell on the car parked across the street. It was Mrs. Naomi’s car, and inside was Mrs. Naomi herself. What was she doing sitting in her car in the middle of the night? He waited for a couple of minutes, but she didn’t move at all. She just sat there, gripping the wheel tightly.

Finally, getting bored of watching her, Sam turned around and pressed record on his camera. He took his seat, his notebook already open in his hands, and took a deep breath. And he started to read.

**11:02 PM**

Sam stopped the camera from recording, rubbing the back of his neck. The room felt too quiet after half an hour of non-stop talking, stopping and restarting the recording, and his throat was dry. Tomorrow, he could replay the cassette and start editing his story. All his hard work would pay off eventually, he was sure of it. 

Loud voices cut through the silence, interrupted only by the thunder raging above the house. 

He spun around, walking to the window before he could stop himself. The voices turned into a scream before stopping completely. They were coming from the Shurleys’ house, he was sure of it. 

A quick glance confirmed that Mrs. Naomi wasn’t in her car anymore.

Without a second thought, Sam started his way to the house across the street. Dean would chew him out if he’d been there, saying that was too dangerous, but what if something had happened to Mrs. Naomi? What if there were burglars in her house, and they’d caught her? Sam only wanted to help.

He walked straight to the back door, where he knew their neighbors kept a spare key from that one summer when Dean was taking care of their garden while they were away on vacation. As soon as he stepped into their backyard, their dog lept out of her house, barking up a storm at him. 

Sam hesitated only a second. The chain tied to her leash was thick and sturdy, and it kept her a good yard away from him. 

He retrieved the spare key and opened the back door slowly, making sure not to make any noise. Peeking inside, he saw that there was no one inside. No sign of a burglar, or the Shurleys.

Sure that the storm would cover any noise he’d make, Sam went further inside, passing by Mrs. Naomi’s shoes, left by the kitchen door. All the lights in the house were turned on, the dinner table set up with candles and wine glasses. He walked around the table, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. 

Until he reached the doorway to the main hall.

Right next to the stairs, was Mrs. Naomi, lying in a pool of her own blood. Her leg was bent at an unnatural angle, eyes staring at the ceiling. Her dress had a red stain quickly blossoming over her belly. 

Sam stood frozen still. His breath came out in quick, sharp exhales as he tried to understand what he was seeing. She was… dead.

Heavy boots walked down the stairs, snapping Sam out of his trance.

He looked up, only to find Mr. Chuck staring straight back at him, a bloody knife in his hand. 

For a second, neither of the two spoke, both too shocked to react. 

Then, blood running cold as he understood what he’d just witnessed, Sam ran away.

“Wait!”

Mr. Chuck was running down the stairs, too, but Sam was already at the front door, yanking it open and bolting outside.

“Wait, come back!” Mr. Chuck called once again, but Sam was not going to stop. 

He just had to cross the road and get back home. Back where he was safe, and he hadn’t walked in on his neighbor murdering his wife. 

**11:06 PM**

Dean petalled as fast as he could. He hadn’t intended to be gone for so long, but Ellen had asked him about school, and he’d lost track of time. At least he got an amazing stew out of this. Sammy loved Ellen’s food.

He turned into their road. Lightning lit up the night, making all the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Sammy was probably right. He shouldn’t be riding his bike in the middle of an electric storm. 

A small truck was coming from the opposite lane, and Dean changed his course to make sure he was out of its way.

“Wait, come back!” 

The voice came from right ahead of him, and Dean’s head snapped up just in time to see a small figure run out of the Shurley’s garden and right in front of the truck.

Dean froze. The warning clawed its way up his throat even as he realized he wouldn’t make it.

The brakes screeched, but it was too late. 

The boy was thrown back, falling to the road a few feet away from where the truck had managed to stop. 

He would know that boy anywhere. 

Abandoning his bike, and forgetting all about the container falling open to the ground, stew spilling everywhere, Dean ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

_Please. Please, not him._

The driver was stepping out of his truck, running, too. 

“Call 911,” the driver said, bent over the broken body. He wasn’t looking at Dean. He was looking at a man, standing at the edge of the road. “We need an ambulance!”

Lights turned on, and neighbors spilled out of their houses to see what all this noise was about. Dean’s classmate, Anna, and her mother were among them, both coming to an abrupt stop, faces frozen with shock as they realized who it was. 

_Please. God, please, no._

Dean was on his knees, tears running down his cheeks. His hands were trembling as he touched Sam’s cheek. Gently. Slowly. So as to not hurt him. It was useless.

_Please let this be a nightmare._

But the touch of cold skin under his fingers felt real. And the screaming of the driver next to him was too loud to be a dream. Ears ringing, Dean looked up from his brother’s empty face to see Chuck Shurley standing by the road, a bloody knife in his hand. In the distance, the first signs of sirens could be heard.


	2. Chapter 2

**2014**

**12:51 PM**

_Bzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz_

Castiel shot up startled, knocking over the box next to him. An avalanche of Claire’s old stuffed toys came out, burying the papers he'd worked so hard all day to organize.

_Another day in moving hell_ , he thought, crawling around to find his cellphone. He was sure he'd left it by his side when he sat cross legged on the floor to start going through the boxes. A moment later he found it under a throw pillow he had no idea they owned. When had they even packed all this stuff?

“Hello?”

“Someone sounds grumpy,” Amelia teased him, her tone light and happy. 

“Someone spent the entire day trying to make sense of all our stuff. Did you know we still have VHS tapes?” Castiel asked, looking around him defeated. He'd left work early to get a headstart with cleaning and organizing their new house while Claire was at school and Amelia at the hospital, but he’d barely finished with the boxes labeled as kitchen and living room. Not to mention half of those boxes were labeled wrong, and he had strong suspicions that there were still some plates hidden in the boxes they'd carried upstairs.

“I do, I packed them,” his wife replied easily, chuckling.

“You hoarder,” he accused her, not bothering to hide the affection in his voice. “How's work?”

“Oh, you know, the usual, but Dr. Miller and I have an open heart surgery scheduled for today, so it should be interesting. Listen, I called because there was a weather forecast about a bad storm coming this way.”

Castiel glanced out of the window at the dark, menacing clouds already gathering in the sky. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before. “I know. I'll pick up Claire from school in my car. I don't want her to get caught up in the rain.”

“Oh, you beat me to it,” Amelia exclaimed. “That's why I called. Though they said not to expect any rain until tomorrow, there is still going to be a lot of thunder. You two be careful, okay?”

“Of course we will. You be safe driving home, too.”

“I will, honey.”

There was a voice somewhere on the other end of the line, something fast and muffled that Castiel didn't quite catch but that was usually followed by Amelia having to rush to one of her patients’ side.

“Cassie, I have to go.”

“I love—”

_Click._

The line disconnected. Sighing, Castiel threw his phone on the stuffed toy mountain. Amelia had to save lives, and he had to make this house into a home.

**1:48 PM**

Throwing his trench coat over the old pair of jeans and shirt he wore around the house, Castiel stepped outside. The chilly breeze enveloped him immediately, seeping into his bones in the way only the high humidity before a storm could. He was lucky he didn't have arthritis, like his old grandma, otherwise he'd feel the storm coming in his joints.

“Wow, didn't know a fashion model moved to our neighborhood.” 

He looked up from unlocking his car, to find his old friend and new neighbor, Anna, smiling at him from her garden. 

“Where are you going in that get up?”

“I'm picking Claire up from school. Are you and Jo still coming over for dinner later?” he asked, waving at her.

“An army couldn't keep me away,” she said, grinning.

Castiel looked at the sky then back at her. “How about the storm of the century?”

“I have a secret weapon.” She raised the umbrella she was holding to show him. It was almost the same shade of red as her hair. “Jo has to be at the Roadhouse until nine-ish, I hope you don't mind if we're a little late.”

Castiel shook his head, opening the car door. “Gives me more time to hide all the crap I still haven't unpacked. Your mother is invited, too.”

Anna laughed, waving him goodbye. “Alright. I'll see you tonight.”

**2:07 PM**

Castiel rolled his car to a slow stop in front of Lawrence High. Kids were rushing out of the large building, backpacks hanging from their shoulders, hoods drawn over their head. The first distant echoes of thunder could already be heard, and almost everyone, Castiel included, was in a hurry to return home. Just two figures were still standing, talking with their heads bowed together. Castiel would have recognized the blonde hair on one of them anywhere.

Rolling the window down, he took a deep breath. Then, “Claire! Claire, over here!” Claire and her friend jumped apart startled. Claire's blue eyes and the other girl’s round, brown eyes turned on him, and he gave them a gummy smile. “I came to pick you up.”

Claire's eye roll was a whole body movement, visible even from afar. Castiel couldn't hear what she was telling to her curly haired friend, but soon the two girls were walking away from each other, and a minute later Claire was sitting next to him.

“Dad, can you be any more embarrassing?” She asked, closing the door and pulling her seatbelt on.

“I'm your dad. It's my job to embarrass you.” He pinched her cheek, watching her narrow her eyes at him.

“You did this on purpose, didn't you? Oh my God. You're such a dork.”

“I'm such a dad.”

“Dad jokes only work if you have humor,” she pointed out, biting down a smile. Castiel counted that as a win.

“So, who was that girl? Your friend? Your girlfriend?” He asked, driving through traffic to take them back home. 

“Dad!” She slapped him on the shoulder. “Kaia and I just met.”

“So just friends?” 

“Just friends,” she confirmed.

Cas gave her a sidelong gaze, taking in the way the tip of her ears had turned red. Her hands were squeezed between the seat and her thighs, a nervous habit she'd developed since she was young to hide her fidgeting.

“For now?” he added, raising an eyebrow.

“I don't know. Maybe?” She turned a vivid shade of pink, and Castiel felt his chest fill with a bittersweet warmth.

He couldn’t believe they were already discussing girlfriends. Sometimes it felt like Claire was growing up too fast. Sixteen years had passed in a blink of an eye. Castiel was getting old, and he hadn’t realized it yet. It still caught him by surprise to look in the mirror and find the occasional sign of grey among his dark hair. It was weird. Bumping into Amelia for the first time at the Roadhouse felt like just yesterday but it had been almost eighteen years since then.

Back then Amelia was still in med-school with Anna and had another boyfriend, but when Castiel saw her it was like he knew this was fate. Having Claire only a couple of years later hadn’t been in their plans, but both embraced the opportunity to become parents and had a small wedding in his in-law’s backyard. 

After so many years together the flame had surely died down, but Castiel would forever love his wife and be grateful to her for giving him the greatest gift he’d ever received. Claire was his pride and joy, and he was already dreading sending her to college in a couple of years. He was determined to make the most of the little time he had left with his daughter still living in their nest.

**6:40 PM**

With a groan, Castiel lifted the last of the boxes labeled living room. He carried it to the new bookcase they had installed just yesterday, looking forward to finally being finished with unpacking the main floor. These books were the only things left to find their new home down there, though they still had almost all of their clothes packed away and had to search through suitcases for the hairdryer when one of them wanted to have a shower. Back protesting, Castiel dropped the box carefully on the floor. Yeah, he was definitely not young anymore.

Amelia was not back yet, but that wasn’t uncommon. Emergencies at the hospital happened all the time, and it was more frequent than not for Castiel to find a text on his phone telling him she was going to be late. Just like today.

“Hey, Dad!” Claire’s voice came from upstairs, loud and clear. “Get over here. I found something.”

Tramping up the stairs, Castiel couldn’t help but catalogue everything he still had to do. Finish unboxing, pick a color for the master bedroom, assemble that IKEA desk, start working on the overgrown garden. At least the main floor was clean and ready for their guests tonight.

“Dad, come on,” Claire called again, and he followed her voice to the spare bedroom at the end of the hall they were planning on turning into an office. He found his daughter half hidden inside the closet, wrestling with a large boxy thing. 

She huffed and groaned, but with a little help from Castiel they managed to recover the lost treasure from the bottom of the closet. Said treasure turned out to be an old television, at least twenty years old from what Castiel could tell, if not older.

Pushing an equally old camera into his hands, Claire said, “Look, I found this, too, and there’s a box of tapes in there.”

“Fascinating,” Castiel murmured, inspecting everything.

Claire lifted herself on her toes to take a closer look as Castiel turned the camera in his hands, pressing buttons at random. There was a tape inside, a faded label marking the date as November 1989. “Do you think it works?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Let’s see if we can find any cables in the boxes in there and we can try.”

**6:53 PM**

It’d taken a lot of fiddling around, but Castiel felt a peculiar satisfaction as they pushed the play button. The TV turned from static to a black image before a young boy appeared on the screen.

“It’s working!” Claire exclaimed, a hand over her mouth. 

Following her to the two chairs they’d dragged upstairs for this exact reason, Castiel watched as the boy walked away from the camera, taking a seat of his own. The tape had been filmed in this very room, with the closet as backdrop. If Castiel used his imagination, it was almost like he’d turned back in time and he really was sitting with that boy in his room, watching him leaf through a notebook.

Then the boy started speaking.

“ _Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away—”_

“ _Hey, Sammy! Time for dinner.”_

The second voice belonged to another boy, but he wasn’t in the frame. From the faint tone of his voice, Castiel guessed he must have been in another room, calling the boy over. The boy—Sammy—looked up startled. He closed his notebook, before walking to the camera and turning it off. A second later the camera was turned on again, Sammy’s shirt obscuring the view. He retreated back to his seat, opened the notebook and started reading again.

“He’s reading a fairy tale,” Claire observed in wonder.

Castiel nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t a story he’d heard before, but it was filled with dragons, fairies and spies in a way only a ten year old could have combined in a story. “He must have written it himself.”

Grinning, Claire turned to look at him. “Wanna see how it ends?”

“Pause the video, and I’ll make us some sandwiches to eat until dinner, how does that sound?” he asked, already getting up.

“Awesome.”

**8:02 PM**

“There you guys are.” 

Amelia was leaning against the door frame, still wearing her coat.

“We found some old tapes,” Claire told her, gesturing at the TV. Their empty plates were discarded on the floor next to them, as neither had been willing to make the effort to take them back to the kitchen. This was the third tape, and this time Sammy was telling the story of a mermaid that wanted to have wings. 

“I see that,” Amelia said, raising an eyebrow in Castiel’s direction.

“We think it belongs to the old owners of this place,” Castiel said, stretching his back. An hour sitting still on the floor was not good for his spine, and now everything felt stiff. 

“Probably,” Amelia agreed, before turning to Claire. “We are expecting guests in less than two hours and you’re still in the same clothes you went to school in. What have you two been doing all this time”

“We were busy,” Claire said, glancing at her father with a small smile. “But I did finish unpacking my clothes, unlike you two.”

“Ugh, my own daughter is reminding me to do my chores. Being an adult is not how I imagined it, ”Amelia fake complained, ruffling Claire’s hair as she ducked out of the room. 

Turning off the TV and putting the camera and tapes away, Castiel turned to his wife. “I invited Anna’s mom, too. I saw Anna this morning.”

“That’s good. I’m sure Anna will be happy to see her out of the house for once,” Amelia said, grinning over her shoulder as she led the way out of the room.

Castiel pushed himself up from crouching to follow her, but something stopped him. 

There was a _click_ and the TV turned back on, static filling the screen, though Castiel hadn’t touched it. He frowned, turning the knob to turn it off again. He watched it for a second, waiting to see if it’d turn on again. It didn’t.

Castiel shook his head. He was more tired than he’d thought. 

He found Amelia in their room. She dropped her bag by their bed, toeing her shoes off and abandoning them in the middle of the room. Usually Castiel would remind her to keep the house tidy, but with everything they still needed to put away from the move, her shoes were the least of their problems. 

Lifting her blouse over her head, Amelia asked, “What did you cook?”

Castiel grabbed the blouse from where she tossed it on the bed, folding it and placing it on top of one of the boxes instead. “I didn’t.”

Sighing, Amelia turned to look at him. “Castiel…”

“I ordered. Don’t worry, it should be here in half an hour.”

“You ordered take out on the night we have guests over?”

“It’s not like I had the time to cook,” Castiel pointed out, watching as her pants were abandoned on the bed, too, doomed to lay there for the whole night unless he picked them up. “I had to go to work, unpack everything, and make sure Claire got home from school okay.”

Amelia froze, hands still clasping the robe she was putting one. “You know if you have something to say you can say it to my face.”

“That’s not what I meant. You know it,” Castiel said, immediately regretting everything that had come out of his mouth. He reached for her, but she pulled away.

“Isn’t it?” she asked, pulling the robe closed tightly around her. Defensively. “Because to me it looks like you’re blaming me for not being here to play house wife. Again. You know I wasn’t out for drinks, Castiel, I was at the hospital. Saving lives.”

“I know. Of course I know. That’s not what I’m saying.” He grabbed her shoulders, trying to soothe her, and this time she let him. “Your job is important, and I support you. With everything I have. But I need you to understand me, Amelia. I didn’t have the time to cook dinner for six on top of everything else I had to do today.”

“But take out?”

“I’m sure Anna would rather have take out than anything I cooked anyway.”

Chewing on her bottom lip—a habit Claire had inherited—Amelia thought for a moment. Then she nodded. “I guess… your cooking skills could use some perfecting.” She shook her head, smiling up at him. “What did you order?”

Castiel smiled back, wrapping his arms around her. “I called that Turkish restaurant you like.”

“Good choice.” She rocked her weight forward, standing on her toes to plant a small kiss to his lips.

“Thank you.”

“And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just… it was an exhausting day at work. Dr. Miller and I were in that surgery for five hours.” She looked up at him from under her lashes, and Castiel’s heart melted. Whatever problems they had in their marriage, he couldn’t hold a grudge. Her work was important, and he couldn’t demand of her to run back home like she had a curfew or something. He and Claire could handle everything just fine themselves.

He squeezed her one last time, hoping to reassure her, before letting her go. “You were late. An emergency?”

“Yeah. One of my patients went into cardiac arrest. Let’s—let’s not talk about it now. We’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner.”

“You’re right. Why don’t you take a hot shower? I’ll get everything ready downstairs,” he said, pushing her towards the door.

Blowing a kiss over her shoulder, she winked at him. “You’re my life savior.”

**9:29 PM**

“Claire, Can you pass the salad?”

The wind was howling outside the house, the boom of thunder a constant reminder of the storm coming their way.

“Here you go,” Claire said, holding the large bowl out towards Anna.

Anna thanked her before turning to her mother to ask her if she wanted more, too. Becky Rosen shook her head, giving her daughter a faint smile, though Castiel could see her nervously playing with the hem of her black cardigan. Her grey hair was pulled back in a low bun. She looked as she had for every day of her life since Castiel had met her—withdrawn and timid.

Pouring more wine in Amelia’s glass, Jo said, “You guys have settled very well into the house haven’t you?”

“Yeah, we love it,” Amelia said, raising her wine in a small toast. “And we can’t thank you guys enough for calling us as soon as it went on the market.”

“Don’t even mention it,” Anna said. “It’s so nice to see someone take care of this house again.”

“Did you know the previous owner?” Castiel inquired, passing some of the kofta he had on his plate over to Claire. They were her favorite, and he’d noticed her eyeing the plates in the middle of the table in search of more.

Anna nodded, bright red hair moving. “Yeah, John Winchester. He was quite the loner after his son walked out of his life. Not that I blame him. Old man Winchester was quite the handful.”

“His son? Do you mean Sammy?” Claire asked, suddenly very interested in the discussion.

Jo and Anna exchanged surprised looks.

“We found some old tapes up in one of the rooms,” Castiel explained.

“Sammy was the youngest of the two brothers,” Anna said, reaching over to grab Jo’s hand, who’d gone a little pale. “He was… he was younger than me, but we were neighbors, and his brother and I were in a few classes together. Always talked about becoming an author when he’d grow up.”

A sad smile appeared on her lips, before she continued. “The Winchester boys didn’t have much, but they were always happy as long as they had each other. Until…”

“Anna,” Becky warned, but her daughter ignored her.

“Until our next door neighbor killed his wife.”

Jo buried her face in her hands. 

Anna looked between Claire and Castiel, placing a sympathetic hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder. “And Sammy saw it. He was run over by a truck while he was trying to escape.”

“Oh my God,” Amelia gasped.

“It was terrible,” Anna said, voice trembling. “I still remember hearing the driver call for help.”

“Anna,” her mother tried again.

“It happened right in front of his brother, too. I think that’s the worst part. It was a night like today, with a storm.”

A broken sob escaped Jo.

“Enough, Anna! Can’t you see Jo is upset?” Becky asked, raising her voice.

Anna pulled Jo closer to wrap her arms around her. She murmured a few words into her ear, before Jo nodded. When she raised her head, her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry,” Jo said. “The Winchesters were like family to me. Our mothers were childhood friends and we grew up together. It was just so horrible. Dean was at my house that night. When I went to school the next morning, lightning had struck the old clock tower, so we had no electricity and no classes for a week. I was so excited when I got back home, only for my mom to pull me aside and tell me the terrible news.”

“Jo, I’m so sorry,” Amelia said, springing up from her seat. “Wait, I’ll get you some water.”

Becky took a deep breath, pressing her fingers over her eyes. “That’s enough I think. We have happier topics to talk about, don’t we? Claire, how is school?”

**10:41 PM**

The light above his head flickered in time with the boom of thunder. Sitting cross-legged at the edge of his bed, Castiel glanced out of the window. The sky was heavy and dark, lightning flashing in the distance. The next peal of thunder rolled downwards, cracking the night in half with enough force to make his ears hurt. He felt goosebumps traveling down his arms.

“What are you looking at?” 

Amelia came into the room, letting her hair loose from the ponytail she’d gathered it in to wash the dishes.

“I did some research on Sam Winchester,” Castiel said, looking at the iPad in his lap. “There are plenty of articles from back then. I found one that says Chuck Shurley—the neighbor—confessed immediately. He told the police he was planning to bury his wife near a small cabin he owned near Clinton Lake.”

Digging through the boxes with their clothes, Amelia frowned. “Why are you so obsessed with this story?”

“It’s not a story, Ame. Sam was just a kid, younger than our Claire. What was he even doing on his own going to that house? Where were his parents? Or his brother?”

Shaking her head, Amelia came closer to him, wrapping her arms around him. She let her jaw rest on top of his head. “I’m not saying what happened wasn’t a tragedy, but why do you have to look into this? We just had a lovely night. Mrs. Rosen was right. Let’s just relax for tonight and not think about any more depressing things.” Dipping her head she gave him a quick kiss. “Help me find my pjs?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but obediently got up to help her. “If you’d emptied the boxes with your clothes like I told you, we wouldn’t have to do this right now.”

“Oh, hush.” Amelia gave him a playful slap to the shoulder and went back to digging through one of the boxes, before crying out in delight. “Hey, look what I found.”

She pulled a knee length white dress out of the box, with lace detail around the collar. It was a little wrinkled from the move, but still beautiful. “Oh, I haven’t worn this in years. I doubt it still fits,” Amelia said, holding it against her shoulders.

“It’s a very pretty dress,” Castiel agreed, caressing the soft material. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in it. When did you buy it?”

“It was a gift from James. I didn’t think you’d appreciate me wearing it.”

Castiel paused, thinking that through. Then he chuckled. “Did you think I was going to be jealous if you wore a dress your ex bought you?”

“Don’t be ass,” Amelia said, pouting. “I was being thoughtful.”

“You left your ex to be with me. Why would I be jealous?”

Huffing, Amelia pulled away. She held the dress out, squinting at it in thought. Her face lit up with excitement. “Oh, I have an idea. I’ll take this to the dry cleaners tomorrow, and I’ll give it to Claire. She’ll look beautiful in it.”

Castiel laughed. “Smooth, Ame. Real smooth change of subject.”

“It worked,” she said, with a quick wink. Grabbing a hanger from one of the boxes, she hung the dress from a doorknob, ready to be taken to the dry cleaners first thing in the morning.

Looking around him, Castiel reached for another box. He was sure he’d seen some of Amelia’s clothes in there, so maybe some of her pjs had also been tossed in there in the packing frenzy. But first he had to take care of the unwashed clothes she’d thrown in there last night. 

He let the dirty clothes fall to the floor, habitually checking the pockets so they’d be ready to get in the washer. His fingers came across something small and flat. Frowning, he emptied the pocket of Amelia’s pants. A mini sewing kit was lying on his palm, the logo of the _Spring Hills Suites_ drawn on it. 

“Oh, stupid me,” Amelia exclaimed, grabbing it right out of his hand. “One of my shirt buttons got torn, and Monica lent me this to fix it. Didn’t mean to steal it from her.”

“Monica is very organized. You’re lucky she had that in her bag,” Castiel said. He couldn’t guess why Monica had visited the _Spring Hills Suites_ when she was living in the same city, but he wasn’t one to pry into other people’s business.

“You know how she is. A hoarder! Did you know she has a cabinet at home filled with those tiny shampoo bottles from hotels? And she never even uses them.” She shook her head at her colleague’s weird habits, then threw the kit back into the box. “Anyway, I found something to wear to bed inside the other box. Why don’t you get ready, too?”

**10:59 PM**

Castiel walked around the house to make sure everything was locked and secured. The storm was still raging outside, the wind racing through the houses and trees. He could almost feel the heavy humidity pressing all around him, could smell the promise of rain in the air even from inside.

Thunder cracked above the roof in a continuous explosion of flashing light that slipped through the curtains as he walked upstairs. He pushed Claire’s door just a little to check on her, and his heart filled with warmth at the sight. She was fast asleep already, curled around a pillow. It was the most adorable thing. He wished he could take a picture without waking her up, but he doubted anything would show without flash.

The sole light he’d left on in the hallway flickered with the next boom of thunder. Castiel shivered, feeling the hair at the nape of his neck rise. He wasn’t scared of storms, but this one in particular made him nervous, a weird sense of foreboding settling heavy behind his ribs. Another flicker of the light and another thunderous roar that left his ears ringing.

Except.

Taking a few steps towards his own room, Castiel realized what he was hearing wasn’t ringing. It was more like… buzzing. 

No. 

_Static._

Turning around, he followed the noise. It was not coming from Claire’s bedroom. Not his and Amelia’s either. He gazed down the hallway, at the room that was still empty: Sam’s old room. 

The door was open just a crack, a line of light stretching across the floor. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet as he moved to open the door.

Standing in the middle of the room like he and Claire had left it a few hours ago was the old TV. The screen was lit up with static, tiny, innumerable black and white dots dancing around in random patterns. Weird. He was sure he’d turned it off.

The signal cut to a black screen, then whatever was in front of the camera, taking up the whole screen, moved away to reveal the room as Castiel had seen it in the tapes. There was the closet left open, the chair Sam had dragged over and even his notebook discarded on the floor.

And then there was Sam himself. 

Coming to squat in front of the screen, Castiel tilted his head to the side. 

Without glancing up at the TV, Sam took his seat and opened his notebook. “Alright, take five. Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away…”

It was one of the tapes Castiel had watched with Claire. Baffled, he traced the cable connecting the TV to the camera. The small light showed the camera was turned on, but there was no tape inside. Just like Castiel had thought.

Thunder cracked through the TV, and not even a second later a twin boom echoed around Castiel.

Eyes dropping back to the screen, Castiel watched as Sam continued to read his story.

“What the fuck?” Castiel wondered aloud.

Sam glanced up, eyes widening. He cried out in surprise, knocking his chair down in his haste to step away from the TV. “What's going on?”

Castiel’s eyes widened. Somehow, deep in shock, he managed to mutter, “Sam?”

In an instant, Sam was running towards the camera, his shirt obscuring the view. Then the signal cut back to static. 

Mouth hanging open, Castiel stared at the screen. What had just happened? Had he actually talked to a boy from the 80’s for however briefly? And had Sam just hang up on him? Or had something gone wrong with their connection?

Lifting himself on his knees, Castiel grabbed the camera. It was still on, but maybe one of the cables had come loose. While he was still fiddling with the old setup, he heard a _click._

Then, “Hello?”

Castiel froze. Heart beating like a drum, he leaned down to peer at the television screen, where confused brown eyes were looking back at him. Feeling like an idiot, Castiel waved. “Hello. Can you… can you see me?”

Sam nodded. “What’s going on? Is that? Is that my room?” There was wonder and disbelief laced through his words as he took in the room behind Castiel.

“Sam, I—Yes. This is your room.”

Castiel couldn't believe it. This was real. He was _really_ talking to a boy from the 80’s. A _dead_ boy, he realized with horror.

Sam, none the wiser about the knot of thoughts fighting inside Castiel's head, fidgeted nervously. “What are you doing in my room?”

Castiel looked around him, trying to find a way to explain this. But how could he explain something he didn't understand? 

In the end, honesty seemed like the best route to take. “I live here. My friend Anna told me about a house being sold down the street from her mom's house.”

Sam perked up at that. “You know Anna?” 

“I do,” Castiel said, kneeling on the floor in front of the TV to be more comfortable. “I met her at the Roadhouse a few years ago. Your friend Jo, too.”

Suddenly, Sam turned around, facing where Castiel knew the window was. 

A feeling of dread washing over him, Castiel asked, “Sam? What is it?”

“There's… I think someone is fighting over at Mr. Chuck's house,” the boy said standing up. Whatever was happening across the street it was loud enough to distract Sam from the stranger in his TV. Could it…?

Of course. The stormy night, the fight across the street, Chuck Shurley. The realization hit Castiel like a ton of bricks.

It was _that_ night.

Sam had already walked out of the frame, and though Castiel couldn't see him, he hoped Sam could still listen to him. Sam's life depended on him.

“Sam, listen to me,” he called, desperation making his fingers tremble. “I know this might sound crazy, but I need you to trust me. Don't go out of the house.”

There was a shuffling sound. Footsteps, and then Sam was standing in front of the TV again. This time there was suspicion edged into his features. “Why not?”

“Please, you have to stay in,” Castiel pleaded with him.

Sam looked away again, mouth falling open. “I think they threw something at the window.”

“Sam, you have to listen to me!”

“Why? Who are you?” Sam demanded, glaring at him.

“I'm… I'm from the future, and if you go outside, you'll be in an accident and you will _die_.” Castiel grabbed the TV, shaking it as if that would let him reach through and grab Sam instead. Shake him instead to make him understand. Castiel couldn't let him out of that house, he couldn't. He couldn't let him walk to his death.

Sam flinched away, horror written all over his face “What are you talking about?”

His grip on the TV turning white-knuckled, Castiel closed his eyes, praying that Sam would trust him. “Please. Stay inside. It's not safe for you out there.”

Sam fell back, shaking his head. He had tears in his eyes. “No. I don't believe you. Who— _what_ are you?”

“Sam, don't go. Please just stay here,” Castiel said again, feeling his arms trembling with how much he was squeezing the TV. But he needed to make Sam understand. “I'll tell you everything you want to know. I'm Castiel. And—and—” he looked around him, trying to find some proof of his words. But there was nothing. How could there be, even if he showed Sam his phone, Sam wouldn't know what phones looked like in the 21st century. Then a lightbulb went off inside his head. “And tomorrow school will be cancelled because a bolt of lightning will hit the school's clock. They'll have no power,” he cried out, desperately.

“I—I don’t—”

“If you just trust me and stay in your room tonight, then tomorrow, when you go to school, you'll know. You'll know I was telling the truth.”

Sam was shaking, trembling. He opened his mouth to say something, but it was drowned out by a crack of thunder. The lights flickered all around them.

“Please, Sam. Please!”

_Please believe me. Please don't go outside._

Castiel could feel tears threatening to spill from his own eyes. 

Sam was still staring at him, hands wrapped around himself protectively.

And still, the storm raged on.


	3. Chapter 3

**2014**

**9:30 AM**

Castiel jerked awake. There was a hand on him, gently shaking him.

“Mr. Novak?”

Blearily opening his eyes, he took in the familiar face standing above him. It wasn't Amelia. Of course it wasn't Amelia, he chastised himself. Why would Amelia call him ‘Mr. Novak’?

Duma, his secretary gave him a small smile, before she stepped away. 

Groaning, Castiel pushed himself up. God, his whole body was a giant sack of achy joints and sore muscles. He was too old for sleeping on a couch. 

Castiel froze. He looked around him.

Why was he at the office? And why was he sleeping on his couch? 

“Didn't you go back home last night?” Duma asked, walking to the windows to open the blinds. The sky was as dark as it had been last night, and the first signs of raindrops were hitting the window. 

“I…” He hesitated, trying to put his thoughts in an order that made sense. Hadn't he taken a few days off to deal with moving? Yes, yes he had.

And last night… he'd had dinner with Anna and Jo. And he'd gotten ready for bed. And there was something else. Something… 

The TV. 

And Sam. 

Such a weird dream. He guessed all that murder talk had gotten to him after all. But why was he at the office instead of his bed? 

“I know our new client has given us a short timeframe, but really going back home and resting would do wonders for you, Mr. Novak,” Duma continued, unaware of how everything she was saying was only confusing Castiel more.

He wasn't in charge of the new client. He'd let Balthazar take over, because he was busy. And today he was supposed to be at home, finishing unpacking, and taking Claire to school because of the storm— 

Shit.

_ Claire! _

Castiel jumped up so fast he felt a little dizzy. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on what he was looking for. He grabbed his phone, tapping as fast as he could to get to his contacts and scrolling down. 

And up again.

And down again.

Where was Claire's name?

_ Screw this. _ He didn't have time for this. Dialing the number by memory, he pressed the phone to his ear and waited.

_ The number you have dialed is not in service. Please try again, _

Cursing, Castiel redialed the number, making sure he had it correct this time.

_ The number you have dialed in not in service. Please—  _

He dropped his phone with a frustrated groan. He was starting to worry. Him waking up here was weird, but maybe he'd been called in for an emergency he couldn't remember _—_ he didn't know what kind of emergency existed in advertising, but that was the only explanation he had _—_ b ut Claire wasn't picking up. Her phone wouldn't even connect. What if something terrible had happened? A giant pit of dread formed in his stomach, and Castiel grabbed his phone again, intent on calling Amelia. She'd know what was going on.

Again, the contact was nowhere to be found.

Jaw clenching, Castiel pressed the button that brought him back to his home screen. A goldfish was staring back at him instead of the selfie he'd taken with Claire on his last birthday. _What the fuck?_

“Mr. Novak?”

Duma had been standing to the side all this time, staring at him in genuine confusion. 

Castiel didn't have time for this. He found his trench coat hanging on the hooks behind his door and threw it over his rumpled clothes. “I gotta go. I have to check on my daughter.”

He stormed out of the office, catching only the beginning of her bewildered question: “Your daughter? But you—” 

**9:34 AM**

This day was an endless series of adverse events. Despite being in a hurry, Castiel had apparently forgotten his car keys upstairs, which didn't even matter because he couldn't find his car in the parking lot. A Lincoln Continental was parked in his usual spot. 

Wonderful. That was exactly what he needed.

A taxi it was then.

**10:04 AM**

His footsteps echoed down the empty hallways of Claire's school. Most of the students were in their classrooms, heads bowed over books. How was he supposed to find Claire? He didn't even know her schedule by heart. 

He was vaguely familiar with the principal’s secretary. He couldn't remember her name, but the grey hair pulled back in a low knot did ring a bell. She looked up at him, pressing her black-rimmed glasses up her nose with her finger.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, I'm Castiel Novak. I really need to see my daughter.”

She gave him a blank look. “Novak,” she repeated. It was clear the name meant nothing to her.

“Yes, Claire Novak. Check your damn computer, and you'll find her.” 

He waited while she turned to her computer screen, an eyebrow raised. The  _ tap tap tap _ of her fingers typing endlessly was getting on his nerves, but what was worse was how she was taking so damn  _ long _ for something so simple.

The secretary paused, clicked around a few times. Her eyebrow rose even higher. “I don't have any record of a Claire Novak.”

“No, that's impossible,” Castiel protested, taking a step closer to her. “Claire Novak is my daughter, and she goes to this school, and I really need to see her.”

He was looming over her. He saw how she flinched away when he raised his voice, and he didn't care. 

“There's no Claire Novak at this school,” she repeated, voice kind of shrill and definitely colder than when he'd first arrived. “I have no idea who she is or who you are.”

His fists clenched and unclenched. He could sit here all day and argue with this unhelpful woman or he could take matters into his own hands.

“Hey, wait!” she called after him, but he was already rushing away. If he had to search every classroom in this damned building then so be it. A quick glance inside the rooms down the first hallway revealed nothing, but when he turned to the west side of the building he stopped short.

Dark curly hair, frail looking shoulders. He knew her.

He yanked the door open and walked inside, ignoring the teacher rising out of his desk in protest. Every single student turned to stare at him, his target leaning away surprised.

He crouched next to her desk, bringing himself to her eye level—he didn't want to scare her, she was just a child. “Kaia, right? I saw you with Claire yesterday. Can you tell me where she is?”

“Claire?” Kaia asked, looking around her.

“Claire Novak, my daughter,” Castiel said, panic rising cold up his throat. “I picked her up from school yesterday. You two were together.”

Kaia shook her head. “I don’t know any Claire.”

The world went a little black around the edges. Castiel knew the teacher was shouting something, but all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. He didn't know what a panic attack felt like, but he felt dangerously close to the edge of getting one. 

Where was his daughter?

**10:38 AM**

Castiel threw a few bills to the taxi driver, jumping out of the car without waiting for change. He walked straight to the hospital’s main door.

The hospital was buzzing with activity, as always, but Castiel didn’t have the patience to wait for his turn. He pushed through the people waiting in line to talk to the receptionist, earning himself several annoyed glares and even a couple of angry complaints. He heard none of it.

He was hyper-focused, his whole mind narrowed to a single purpose: to find his daughter.

The receptionist was a nurse Castiel could vaguely recognize. She narrowed her eyes at him, opening her mouth to protest his skipping the line, but he beat her to it. “I need to see Dr. Novak. Do you know if she’s in her office?”

The receptionist, Hannah, frowned. “Dr. Novak?”

“Yes. Dr. Amelia Novak,” Castiel clarified, annoyance running through his body all the way to the tips of his fingers. He drummed them against the desk in front of him.

“If you mean Dr. Amelia  _ Hailey _ , then yes, she’s in her office, but—”

“Thank you,” Castiel snapped, turning around and leaving without waiting to hear what else she had to say. Why Hannah had referred to Amelia by her maiden name was beyond him, but what had been even more weird had been how there had been no hint of recognition when she looked at him. This day just kept getting weirder and weirder.

He barged into Amelia’s office without knocking, walking up to her in two long strides. She looked at him bewildered, blonde hair tied back in a tight pony.

“Amelia, what the hell is going on?” Castiel asked without missing a beat. “I tried to call Claire and I can’t get through. I went by her school, and everyone was acting like they didn’t know who she was.”

Amelia took a step back, bringing the file she’d been reading close to her chest. “Excuse me, who are you?”

Castiel paused. He blinked. “If this is some kind of joke, Amelia, then it’s time to stop. This is not funny, I’m really worried. Did you tell Hannah to act like she didn’t know me?”

Amelia shook her head, taking another step back when Castiel stepped forward. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“Where is Claire?” Castiel insisted, feeling the last shreds of control slipping through his fingers. He’d had enough of everything, and he was beyond ready for this cruel joke to end. “Where’s Claire, Amelia,” he demanded again, raising his voice.

She flinched back. “Who is Claire?” she asked. “Who are you?”

The anger that had been fizzing under his skin all this time, came bubbling out, overflowing him. “Claire’s our daughter,” he yelled, grabbing and shaking her. 

An image flashed behind his eyelids, like a scene from a movie. 

_ Castiel was lying in a bed, a thin sheet thrown over his naked body. Music was flowing into the room, a familiar tune— _

“Don’t touch me,” she shrieked, wrenching free of his hold and shattering the vision. Grabbing the phone on her desk, she punched in a number. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m calling security.”

“I’m Castiel,” he hissed, every muscle in his body screaming for him to grab something and smash it. “I’m Castiel Novak, you’re Amelia Novak, and we’re married. Claire’s our daughter, and I want to know where she is.”

“You’re crazy,” she spat, face contorted with irritation. Then she was mumbling into the phone, her words too muffled and too hurried for Castiel to catch, but he didn’t care anyway. 

He felt ready to explode.

“I’ve had enough of this. I’m not the crazy one, everybody else is. How can you not remember me? Or Claire?” he asked, hands fisted at his side.

She turned to look at him, pity written into every line of her face. Then her eyes snapped to the door behind him, as two burly men stepped inside, dressed in the hospital security uniforms.

“Is this the guy bothering you, Dr. Hailey?” one of the two asked, eyes zeroed in on Castiel.

“Yes, that’s the one,” she confirmed, her voice shaky.

The other man cracked his knuckles. “Alright. Now, are you going to be a good boy and come with us, or are you going to put up a fight?”

They stalked around him, flanking him from either side. One of them tried to grab him, but Castiel shook his hands off. “Get your hands off me,” he said, trembling with rage. He turned to glare at his wife. “I can find the exit on my own.”

The man who’d tried to grab him raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t mind if we make sure you really can.”

Castiel marched down the hospital corridor, boiling with rage. He didn’t want to have to resort to extreme measures, but it seemed like he had no other choice.

**11:06 AM**

The harsh white light above him made his eyes sting, and did little to help him fight the headache he could feel throbbing just behind his eyelids. The blinds were drawn over the window, but the flashes of lightning outside were still visible.

Castiel counted in his head.

One beat, two beats, three, four. The thunder boomed with enough force to make him feel like the whole building was shaking around him. He dipped his head, hands clasped so tight that his knuckles had turned white, and yet, they were still very clearly trembling. 

Coming to the police seemed like the only option he’d been left with after Amelia had him thrown out of the hospital. At least the officers at the station showed him to Detective Singer’s office without any fuss. They were surprisingly accommodating. 

The detective seemed like a kind man, even if he’d been a bit taken aback by Castiel’s outburst as soon as he’d stepped in.

“Woah, woah,” the detective had said, raising his arms up in a calming gesture. “Why don’t you take a seat and explain to me again what happened.”

And so Castiel told him everything. About his daughter going missing, about his wife not recognizing him. About going crazy with worry because nothing made sense. 

Detective Singer had stepped outside for just a second, leaving Castiel alone. Alone with his thoughts and his worries.

Another crack of thunder. 

Then the door opened, and the detective slipped back inside.

“Here, I got you some coffee,” Singer said, placing a cup in front of Castiel.

“Thank you, Detective.” 

Singer grimaced, and Castiel offered a tight smile, even though he knew his stomach was lurching just at the idea of drinking it. There was no way he was touching that coffee.

The detective took his seat, frowning at Castiel. His green eyes searched every inch of his face, for what though, Castiel couldn’t guess.

“You can call me, Dean,” the man settled for eventually.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel repeated dutifully. 

With slow movements, like he was worried he might scare Castiel away, Dean took a notebook out, turning it to a clean page. “I’m going to need a little more information to help you. Do you mind answering a few questions for me?”

Castiel was tired. So, so tired. Anger was slowly sipping out of him, leaving nothing but exhaustion and worry behind. “Of course. Anything you need.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Castiel Novak.”

“And your spouse’s name?” Dean asked, noting everything down.

“Amelia Novak. She’s a cardiothoracic surgeon at Lawrence Memorial.”

The storm hadn’t started yet, but it was steadily drizzling since the early morning, the spatter of the light rain a constant background noise to their conversation.

“And when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

Castiel exhaled, a shaky breath that left his shoulder slumped and his chest empty. “Just last night. I checked on her before going to bed and she was sleeping.”

Dean nodded, never stopping his scribbling. “And you said she was gone this morning?”

“I—” Castiel hesitated. “I don’t know. I woke up at work instead of my house, and when I tried to contact her I couldn’t. People at her school acted like they had never heard of her.”

“Right.” Dean looked up briefly, something unreadable in his expression.

“You don’t believe me.” Castiel sighed, shaking his head. He was on the verge of tears. This was his last option to find his daughter, and even the detective had his doubts about the story Castiel was saying. He was so exhausted. “I’m not crazy. I know it sounds like I just escaped from an asylum or something, but everything I told you is real. My daughter is missing, and I need help to find her.”

“And I want to help you,” Detective Dean promised, his lips curving up in a ghost of a smile. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Castiel shook his head. “I told you. I checked up on Claire before going to bed. It was raining outside and I made sure all the windows were closed, and…”

And then he’d heard that noise. The TV, the storm, the boy. Castiel blinked. Took a deep breath. “I—” His voice cracked, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I must really be going crazy. Because I remember finding an old TV in our unused bedroom, and it was turned on, and there was a boy. Our friend, Anna, told us about him over dinner, how he saw his neighbor murdering his wife and died in front of his brother mere minutes later. But I saw him. In the TV.”

Dean was staring at him, brows raised almost to his hairline. His lips were slightly parted. Not in shock. More like wonder. 

Castiel was desperate for the detective to believe him.  “I could talk to him somehow, and I pleaded with him not to get out of his room, because I knew he’d die if he did. And I kept pleading with him, begging him to believe me.”

“Who was the boy?” was all Dean said.

“Sam Winchester,” Castiel said, dropping his head in his hands. “I—shit. Was it a dream? It didn’t feel like a dream, but how could it be anything else?”

“Cas.” Dean’s voice was gentle, drawing Castiel’s attention back to him. “I know everything must be very confusing right now, but we’re going to figure out what happened.”

“How?” Castiel asked, voice shaking. 

Dean hesitated, his eyes searching Castiel’s face unsurely for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “While I was getting your coffee I asked for a little background check on your daughter.” He paused, chewing on his lip. Then, “We couldn’t find any birth certificate for a Claire Novak, or any other documentation. As far as the state is concerned, your daughter doesn’t exist.”


	4. Chapter 4

**1989**

**6:58 AM**

“Shit, I’m late.”

Sam could hear his brother curse and shuffle around in his room, drawers being thrown open, stuff tossed to the floor. Dean had been late to return last night, and he spent a couple of hours cleaning the house while waiting for Dad to show up, so he'd probably fallen asleep even later than usual.

Sam hadn't slept at all. 

After seeing that man inside the TV, he'd been too unsettled to be able to rest. He had told Dean a quick excuse and locked himself in his room, staring at the TV and wondering if the man would come back.

He never had.

"Sammy!" Dean's voice was fading in and out. He was probably rushing around the house, trying to get ready. With a hurried _thump thump thump_ of boots down the stairs and up again, Dean came crashing through the door. "I gotta go. Ellen will come by to pick you up for school, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, still in his pjs, staring at the drawing he'd been working on for the better part of the night. Blue eyes and a mop of back hair stared back at him.

"Awesome." His older brother gave him finger guns, a plastic bag with a sad-looking sandwich inside hanging from his wrist. "Anna's already waiting for me. See you later."

With the front door closing behind him, the house was plunged into silence again. Dad was still snoring in his room, sleeping off his hangover.

Carefully, Sam stood up on shaky legs and walked to the old TV. He turned the knob, watching the screen come to life, static filling his ears. No sign of a man from the future.

Had it all been a dream? Was it even possible to dream while still awake?

He turned the TV off, shuffling downstairs to find something for breakfast. Dean had probably left milk and cereal out for him.

The drawing of the man was left abandoned on the floor.

**8:15 AM**

The chill of the storm was seeping through his many layers of clothing, making him shiver, as he walked with Ellen and Jo towards his school. The first raindrops were lazily falling from the dark sky, the earthy scent of ozone settling heavy over him.

"Come on, Sam. Time to cross the road." Ellen put a gentle hand on his shoulder, with the other one holding onto Jo. 

There was a crowd gathered in front of the front gate of their school, parents and children all loitering outside, instead of saying their goodbyes and heading off to start their days.

“Ellen,” one of the mothers called, waving the three of them over. 

“What’s going on?” Ellen asked, rushing Sam and Jo towards the other woman.

“The electricity is out. School is canceled for a few days,” the woman explained, while Jo tugged at her mother’s hand, eager to be released to join her friends.

Sam took a small breath, feeling lightheaded. Over the heads of the crowd, he could just make out the old clock tower of their school. The facade was blackened and burned. Smoke was imprinted into the wall, its shape fanning out in a perfect mirror of the lightning rolling down the sky above his head.

“Sam,” Ellen called. “Come on, let’s go. You can stay with us until Dean comes to pick you up.”

Mechanically, Sam tore his eyes away from the old clock tower and followed her. So Castiel had been telling the truth. 

**3:54 PM**

The light drizzle was making Dean’s hair seem more spiked than usual. Sam, hood pulled over his head, huddled closer to his brother for warmth.

“Thanks for the food, Ellen,” Dean called over his shoulder, as they walked out of the house. 

“I wish the lightning had hit _my_ school. I could have used the time to go grocery shopping. We’re almost out of milk,” he mumbled once out of earshot, one hand shoved in his pocket. Then he turned to his brother with a lopsided grin. “Did you and Jo have fun? I hope you behaved for Ellen.”

“We watched some TV, then Jo brought her markers over, and we drew,” Sam said. In truth he’d spent the entire day looking forward to his brother coming to pick him up. The man in the TV had told him the truth. Castiel really was from the future, and maybe Sam would be able to get in touch with him again.

Heart beating frantically, he turned to his brother, eyes wide. “Dean, do you remember that movie we snuck into? _Back from the future?”_

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Dean said, whistling. “It was awesome. I heard part two is coming out in a week or so. If I manage to get some extra cash out of Dad, maybe we can go watch it.”

“Do you think it could be true?” Sam asked, unable to stop himself.

“What, time travel? That thing is science fiction, Sammy. It’s not real, I promise.”

“But, Dean, I saw a man yesterday inside the TV.”

“You saw a man _on_ TV, Sammy,” Dean corrected, ruffling his hair. “Jesus, and to think you got all the smarts in this family.”

Sam huffed, pulling away. “No, he was _inside_ the TV, Dean. And he talked to me. He said he was from the future, and he knew about the lightning hitting the clock tower.” The words fell out of his mouth fast and mumbled. He was too excited to be able to form a proper thought, let alone a sentence. He hadn’t said anything about Castiel to anyone else, but he could trust Dean. He always had Sam’s back.

Dean frowned, running a hand through his damp hair. “Did you dream about it? That sounds like a dream.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sam insisted, stomping his foot. “His name was Castiel, and he knew Anna, too. He said he met her at the Roadhouse. Ellen’s Roadhouse. And he also told me that I had to stay at home last night, or else something bad would happen.”

“That’s something me and that Castiel dude agree on,” Dean joked. “Shit, Sammy, it sounds like your gigantic brain was on overdrive while you were sleeping last night.”

“But it was real,” Sam said again. He knew it was, no matter how much Dean laughed at him. And he was going to prove it.

**5:58 PM**

He had tried everything he could think of. Every frequency and every random pattern of buttons and knobs. He’d tried hitting the TV in frustration, too, but nothing. There was something he was missing here. There had to be something he wasn’t doing right.

Sam frowned at his old television. If he couldn’t get in contact with Castiel again, then he wouldn’t be able to prove to Dean he was telling the truth.

Sam heard barking from outside, and snapped his head around. Through the window he could see Mr. Chuck’s yard, but not the dog, which usually should have been unleashed to roam the garden for the day. 

Weird. 

Mr. Chuck was always very meticulous about taking care of his dog. Sam couldn’t remember a single day she had spent leashed to her house while the sun was still out.

He leaned to peek outside. Mrs. Naomi’s car wasn’t parked in front of the house anymore, but Mr. Chuck's was. Hadn’t he gone to work today? 

Face pressed to the cold glass, Sam exhaled, watching the window fog. This storm was throwing everyone out of their loop. 

Then, as he watched, the front door to Mr.Chuck’s house opened, and a tall woman with long dark hair stepped out. Sam could remember seeing her before. He was sure Mr. Chuck had introduced her to Dad as his sister, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. She was saying something to someone inside the house, out of Sam’s sight, but then she was buttoning up her long coat and walking away.

Static caught his attention, and Sam rushed back to his TV. He dropped to his knees, eyes glued to the screen. The signal was weak, black and white fighting over the buzzing grey, but he was sure he could almost make out a figure leaning in front of the TV. Broad shoulders and hair longer than Castiel’s had been. 

Excitement running through his fingers, he twisted the antena, trying to get a clearer image.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

The television turned off again, the figure disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared.

Sam’s cry for his brother never made it past his lips. Disappointment welled up inside him, but it only further reinforced his determination. At least now he was sure that he hadn’t dreamed of the man from the future. Castiel was real. Everything he’d told him about the clock tower was real. Which meant everything he’d told him about something terrible happening if he’d gone outside last night was also real.

He ran downstairs to find his brother with the phone pressed between shoulder and ear.

“Yeah, Bobby… Yeah, that’d be awesome. I’m sure Sammy will look forward to it, too.” Dean gave his brother a quick wink, lifting his finger to stop him from talking while he was still on the phone. “Alright, I’ll let Dad know. Talk to you later.”

The grin that was spreading on Dean’s face was gigantic. “Good news. Bobby just called, and he’s back home from his hunting trip up north. He said if the weather improves, he’ll drive here and all three of us can go fishing and maybe we can stay in Topeka for the weekend with him.”

“Dean, I saw him again,” Sam said immediately, the words bubbling out of him. “Castiel. He was inside the TV.”

“Whoah, whoah, slow down, Sammy.” Dean grabbed his shoulder and led him towards the kitchen table, gesturing for him to sit. Dean sat right next to him. “What do you mean you saw him again?”

“Well, we didn’t talk,” Sam explained, practically bouncing on his seat. “But the TV connected for a moment, and I saw him hovering just behind the screen.”

Dean’s eyes searched his face as he chewed on his lower lip. “Sammy, is this one of your stories?”

“No, Dean, it’s real. I promise you, it’s real,” Sam said, hands curling into fists. “And he said something terrible would happen last night, and Mr. Chuck has been acting weird since yesterday. His dog is still tied up, and I saw his sister leaving the house just a while ago.”

Dean shook his head. “Maybe Mr. Chuck kept the dog on his leash because his sister visited. Maybe she doesn’t like dogs.”

“But I heard a fight last night,” Sam insisted. “And I think I saw something hitting the windows last night. Maybe that’s what Castiel was talking about.”

“Okay, first of all, spying on our neighbors is not nice. Those ain’t the manners I taught ya,” Dean said, pointing a firm finger in Sam’s direction. “And secondly, that Cas dude—”

“It’s Castiel,” Sam huffed.

“—is a stranger. Now I don’t care if you really saw him inside the TV or whatever, but you don’t do anything he tells you, and you come talk to me if he appears again. Do you understand?”

“But I—”

“Do you understand?” Dean asked again, more firmly this time. 

A knot quickly forming in the back of his throat, Sam nodded. 

Dean had it all wrong. Castiel was one of the good guys, Sam was sure of that. As he was sure that what Castiel had told him was important. And it was up to him to figure out exactly what that terrible thing that had happened last night was, and how it was connected with the Shurleys.

**8:42 PM**

“Dean, what’s for dinner?” 

Sam could hear his father’s heavy footsteps as he walked up the stairs to change out of his filthy clothes. Peeking from his room, he caught a glimpse of a dirty boot heel disappearing inside the bedroom. Dean came running upstairs just a second later, their dad’s coat thrown over his shoulder.

“There’s stew Ellen gave me yesterday,” Dean said, voice loud enough for their father to hear from the other room, “but she also gave me some lasagna when I went over to pick Sammy up today. You can choose whatever you want.”

“You were asking Ellen for leftovers again?” Dad asked, his wide frame filling his door. He’d shed his outer layers, leaving him only in his pants and a stained tee. His dark brows were drawn together. “How many times do I have to tell you not to do that? You’re not a beggar. What happened to your allowance?”

“I didn’t ask for it, she just gave it to me, because she knows sometimes I don’t have the time to cook,” Dean said, a hint of hurt in his voice. Sam pressed closer to his door, watching the back of Dean’s head as he faced their father. “And the allowance you left me was barely enough to buy groceries for three days. And Sam needs new shoes. And there’s a bill that came yesterday that you forgot to pay,” his brother continued.

“Then you should have handled your money better, Dean,” their father barked. “And why does Sam need new shoes again? If you were taking better care of him—”

Sam ducked away, covering his ears with his hands. Another night, another fight. Sometimes he thought it was better when it was just him and Dean, and Dad had gone out to drink. At least the house was quiet then. 

Tuning his father and brother out, Sam walked to the windows, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. Movement caught his attention, and he saw Mr. Chuck get inside his car. A minute later he was driving away. A quick look up and down the road revealed that Mrs. Naomi’s car was still missing. 

Could he…?

His father’s door slammed closed, making him jump in surprise. Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw Dean stomping towards the bathroom, coat still thrown over his shoulder. Then that door was slammed closed, too.

Sam looked back outside at the house across the street. It wasn’t like staying here while Dad and Dean were each stewing in their own juices was helping anyone.

He just had to wait for Dean to retreat to his room, too.

**8:57 PM**

Heart beating like crazy, Sam pushed the back door of the Shurley’s house open. He carefully walked inside the kitchen, keeping an ear out for any hint of noise inside the house. The rooms were all eerily dark, curtains drawn, and only the flash of lightning from outside illuminated his way. 

He walked around, taking in the mop and bucket left by the main stairs. The room he’d seen the commotion in last night was on the second floor. The stairs creaked loudly when he first put his foot on them, and his stomach twisted in a tight knot. He stood frozen there, waiting to see if someone would jump out of the shadows and catch him in the act of breaking into his neighbor’s house, but the dog barking was still the only noise coming from outside. 

Emboldened, he hurried up the stairs. When he reached the hallway, he took a steadying breath. The door to his left was open, a bed just behind it, and right in front of him was an office. He turned to look at the door to his right, and the world came to halt. 

As if in a dream, he closed the distance between him and the bathroom. There was a bathtub straight ahead, curtain drawn back, and a hand was hanging limply from inside it.

Sam couldn’t breathe. There was a buzzing in his ears as he walked, similar to the static of his television but so much more distant. The hand had blood crusted along the fingernails, a white sleeve leading all the way to the body’s shoulder, awkwardly bent as it— _she_ was inside the tub.

Naomi Shurley's face was contorted in horror, eyes wide and glassy and much more terrifying than the bodies Sam had seen in movies. He curled a palm over his mouth, willing his stomach not to empty its contents right then and there.

He took a step back, commanding himself to just turn around and run, get out of there. But his legs felt like they were made of lead, and his eyes were glued to the dark, bloody stain on Naomi's blouse.

A door opened and closed. At the same time Sam realized the dog had stopped barking. Which could mean only one thing.

Chuck Shurley was back.

**9:04 PM**

Chuck walked up the stairs, a big suitcase in hand. He turned as soon as he reached the landing and headed for the bathroom.

A hand clasped over his mouth and nose, Sam pressed himself further back under the bed. He watched, trembling, as Chuck dropped the suitcase on the floor, opened it and took out plastic sheets, which he spread on the entire bathroom floor. 

What followed next made Sam gasp for breath.

Chuck pulled out an electric saw and gloves. He slipped an apron over his head. Then the sound of the saw coming to life filled the room, and Sam turned his face away, not willing to watch the rest of this gruesome scene. He turned to face the other side of the room, trying to convince his mind that he was back home and Dean was warming up dinner for him.

Something caught his eye near the edge of the bed. Something small that glimmered with every flash of lightning that lit up the room. He dragged himself closer, enough to dart his hand out and grab it. He turned the golden watch in his hand, seeing the curvy, loopy letters in the back side.

_R E R_

The roar of the saw changed its tune, becoming deeper and muted, and Sam closed his eyes with enough force to see tiny stars behind his eyelids. When would this nightmare be over?

**9:35 PM**

The suitcase was zipped closed with a rapid, sharp sound.

Then silence. 

From his hiding spot, Sam heard Chuck coming closer, shuffling into the room. A heavy sigh, then a drawer opening. Papers shifting around. Then the drawer closing. Chuck walked out of the room and down the stairs.

Grabbing the chance, Sam quickly dragged himself out from under the bed. He stood up, and carefully walked to the door, all the while avoiding the lonely suitcase sitting inside the bathroom. He leaned against the door frame, watching for Chuck, but he was nowhere in sight. 

He could hear him, though. Talking to someone. Probably on the phone.

Broken pieces of the one sided conversation made it all the way upstairs.

_Yes, it's done._

_—you ready?_

_A couple of days should be—_

_Alright, call me when you get there._

Sam didn't know where the phone was. Chances were he couldn't sneak out without Chuck seeing him. His heart squeezed. If Dean had noticed he was gone, he'd probably be worried by now. And he’d be furious if Sam ever managed to get out of this house and go back. He'd pushed his luck even after Dean had warned him. Even after Castiel had warned him. 

Gazing around the room in desperation, he tried to think of a way to get out, but there was nothing. Just some envelopes on the dresser, a robe forgotten on the bed, and the wristwatch, held tightly in his sweaty palm. His house was just across the street, but Sam may as well have been on a different continent.

Hearing Chuck returning, Sam dove under the bed again. He watched Chuck’s feet walk in the hallway, then the suitcase being dragged over. _Thump thump thump_ and it was down the stairs. And then the door closed.

Sam closed his eyes, too, praying.

The slam of a trunk. Then the roar of an engine over the rain.

He counted to sixty just to be sure Chuck hadn't forgotten anything, and then Sam was running, bolting out the back door and towards home.

“There you are,” Dean said, coming over at the sound of their front door. “I was getting worried. Where were you?”

Breathing heavily through his nose, Sam looked up at his brother. 

“Castiel was right.”

He held up the wristwatch.


	5. Chapter 5

**2014**

**6:38 PM**

Castiel was sitting on an examination table, the thin robe doing little to shield him from the cold. He was alone, just him and the boom of thunder outside. He’d been at the hospital for the better part of the day, allowing the doctor to run multiple tests, picking and prodding, scanning and analysing. Dean had insisted. 

Speaking of the devil, the door opened and the detective stepped inside with a sandwich in his hand. “Thought you might be hungry,” he said, offering the plastic wrapped sandwich over. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Honestly, I can’t remember,” Castiel said, giving him a thankful smile. He was tired. Exhausted. And yet he had surrendered himself to the only resource he currently had to find his daughter. If he passed all the tests—and there was no doubt in his mind he was going to pass, he wasn’t crazy—then maybe Detective Dean would believe him. And help him.

Castiel turned his attention to the sandwich. He didn’t have any appetite, but he knew his stomach would thank him later. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He took a small bite, chewing slowly. Well if he had to swallow down a sandwich, Castiel counted himself lucky that at least it was his favorite: ham and cheese.

“Shit, you must be cold. How long have they left you in here like this?” Dean asked, taking in the goosebumps on Castiel’s arms. He quickly shrugged off his leather jacket, throwing it around Castiel’s shoulders. It was heavy and smelled of car oil, but it was comforting. It felt… safe. 

The detective squeezed his shoulder, eyes searching Castiel’s face before giving him a sad smile. “Cheer up, Cas. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

“I just can’t wait to be done from here.”

“You and me both,” Dean said, pushing his hands in his pockets. He leaned against the wall closest to the examination table, his shoulder holster, now uncovered, accentuating his broad chest. Bright green eyes surveyed the room, but they always seemed to come back to Castiel, resting on him with a quiet intensity, a certain tenderness that made something warm stir inside him.

Castiel dropped his eyes, pulling the jacket tighter around him. He brought the sandwich to his mouth, nibbling on it while they waited for the doctor to come back. 

A few minutes later, a nurse appeared at the door. “Mr. Novak, you can get dressed now. We are done with all the tests we wanted to run. The doctor will see you in his office.”

“I’ll wait for you with the doctor,” Dean said, following the nurse out of the room after giving him an encouraging nod. He left his jacket, though.

Even after Castiel had finished changing, he let his fingers trace the worn seams of it, the places where the leather had faded from time and use. It was weird, but the thought of returning it was unsettling.

Mentally shaking himself, Castiel folded the jacket over the crook of his elbow. He didn’t have time for this. He had to find Claire. 

The doctor’s office was easy to find, and Dean was already there, as he’d promised. Castiel’s nervous heart was comforted a little at the sight. He took the other seat in front of the desk, looking to the doctor for the answers he already knew.

“Physically, there’s nothing wrong with you. All your tests results are excellent,” the doctor said, lifting a scan to observe under the harsh white light. “There’s no reason that I can see for your confusion.”

“I’m not confused,” Castiel said, hunching his shoulders. “I’m not crazy. I’ve been telling people all day and no one will believe me, but I’m Castiel Novak, Amelia Novak is my wife, and my daughter Claire is missing. You say that there’s nothing wrong with me, so how can you still doubt everything I’m telling you?” He looked between the doctor and Dean, seeing pity in one’s eyes and concern in the other’s. He didn’t like either of the two.

The doctor glanced at Dean first and knitted his fingers in front of him. “I see in your medical records you were recently prescribed Xanax for stress and insomnia.”

“No,” Castiel started, shaking his head.

“Benzodiazepines may affect memory and thinking in some patients,” the doctor continued, clearly talking more to Dean than Castiel, “if the treatment is long term, or you’ve been taking a higher dose than recommended. Quitting Xanax cold turkey may also be a cause for all the symptoms you’re exhibiting, especially paired with a high stress situation, maybe a new project at work.”

His sentence rose in the end, but not like he was asking a question. More like he was trying to jostle a memory inside Castiel.

Castiel shook his head, clenching his fists. “There’s no new project,” he hissed through gritted teeth. 

Dean leaned forward catching his eye. “We’ve found out that Dr. Hailey treated your mother a few years back. She implanted a pacemaker to help with her arrhythmia. That’s how you know her.”

“No, Amelia never performed that operation. It was Dr. Miller that treated my mother. Amelia felt she was too close to the case to be able to take it on,” Castiel said, shaking with anger. It seemed like no matter what he did, people would just keep doubting him at every turn. Even Detective Dean was trying to find ways to prove his words false. 

Feeling like he was suffocating, Castiel sprang up from his seat. “Excuse me, I think I need some water.”

“Oh, I’ll come with you,” Dean said, getting ready to get up, too, but the doctor stopped him.

“Actually if I may have a word with you, Detective Singer.”

Dean paused, clearly torn between following Castiel and staying to hear what the doctor had to say.

“I’ll just be in the cafeteria,” Castiel said and left without giving the detective time to actually make the decision. He’d rather be alone than have to deal with all the people calling him a liar. Or with how Dean, _specifically,_ not believing him hurt just a bit more than the others. 

**6:51 PM**

His coffee was going cold in front of him, untouched. The cafeteria was filled with chatter and activity, doing little to calm his already strained nerves. He had a terrible headache, and he really needed to figure this whole mess out, except he could do nothing but sulk around.

“And then he said—”

The familiar voice caught him by surprise. Castiel turned to check over his shoulder, immediately zeroing in on a shock of red hair sitting a few tables away from him. 

Anna.

Castiel had forgotten she worked at Lawrence Memorial, too. 

Everyone else had forgotten about him, but maybe Anna hadn’t. 

As if in a dream, he stood up, closing the distance between them.

“Anna.”

She looked up at him, confusion written across her face. “Yes?”

“Anna it’s me, Castiel.” He took the one free chair in her table, ignoring the other nurse looking at him like he was crazy. He was used to it anyway. 

Anna laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.”

“No,” Castiel said. “I’m Castiel Novak, and you’re one of my oldest friends. We met at the Roadhouse. You were there every night because of Jo, and Amelia spilled my drink. She invited me over to your table to buy me another as an apology and that’s how we met.”

“I swear, this is the first time I’ve seen you in my life,” she told him, brows furrowed with confusion. She searched his face, but no spark of recognition appeared in her eyes.

“Anna, please,” he begged her, taking his hand into his. 

He gasped, as a series of images flashed in his mind, like the vision he’d had when he touched Amelia. 

No, not pictures. 

Memories.

_He was at the Roadhouse with his friend, Gabe, drinking after a hard day at work. He got up from his table, intending to go order them another round._

_Amelia should have bumped into him at that point, but she didn’t._

_A hand caught his elbow, making him turn around. She passed right behind him without ever sparing him a second glance. Anna didn’t even look up from where she was sitting at the booth closest to the bar._

_Castiel looked up to find—_

Castiel pulled back like he’d been burned, mouth hanging open. What the fuck?

He turned to Anna, to find her flinching away, eyes wide.

“We never met,” he said, trying to comprehend what just happened. Then another thought crossed his mind. “Anna, what happened to Sam Winchester?”

“Sam Winchester?” she asked, swallowing. “How do you even know that name?”

“You were his neighbor,” Castiel insisted. “What happened to him after the storm in 1989?”

“Sam left,” Anna said, eyes wide and fearful. “He and his brother went to live with an uncle or something. No one knows what happened to him after that, not even Jo and Ellen. They didn’t even come back to deal with their father’s house after he died. A realtor just showed up one day and took care of it.”

Castiel was dizzy, his mind trying to reconcile the new memories that had just flooded him with what he knew as his reality. But Anna’s words stood out to him above everything else. Everything was finally making sense. Sam hadn’t died that night, and somehow that had changed everything. A butterfly effect that had prevented him from meeting Amelia, had prevented Claire from being born. Feeling his legs going numb, Castiel stood up.

If Anna said anything to him, it was lost in the buzzing in his ears. This was so much worse than what he’d thought at first. And he had to find a way to fix it. He had to find a way to get his daughter back.

**7:20 PM**

The road in front of his house was empty. Castiel walked up to the front door, dreading what he’d find. He didn’t expect the first surprise to greet him even before he’d made it inside. 

The door was smashed, left open for anyone walking by to just push open and walk in. Carefully, Castiel stepped inside, keeping his ears out for any noise. The house was empty and silent, and completely different to what he remembered. Gone was the cozy furniture he’d picked out with Amelia not even a month ago, as were the soothing earth tones from the walls. Instead the interior was all sleek and modern lines, endless white walls and leather armchairs. Even the wall between the kitchen and the dining room had been knocked down to create an open and airy room that would be hell to keep heated come winter. 

Giving himself one second to absorb everything, Castiel darted up the stairs. He passed by Claire’s door, heart tightening at the thought of the empty room behind it, but he pressed on. If he was right, the key to getting her back was waiting for him just a few feet away.

The spare bedroom had been converted to a cozy office, two desks pushed against the wall. The closet was intact. Castiel threw the doors open, eyes scanning the dark space. 

The old TV was not there.

Feeling panic rising like bile in the back of his throat, Castiel dug inside, desperately trying to remember where Claire had found the television exactly. Was it just standing there or had she pushed something out of the way to reveal it?

It was nowhere. 

He turned around, but there was no place in the room big enough to hide a TV inside. Then his eyes landed on the two computers. He crossed the room in two big strides. Thank God Amelia still used the same password even in this version of the world. 

He opened up a browser, typing in the search terms quickly.

_Sam Winchester._

The results were slow to load, making him even more nervous and jumpy. The words ‘ _book’_ and ‘ _twin storms’_ and ‘ _murder’_ came up. He clicked on the first link, a Wikipedia page, quickly scanning the information there. It was a book, written by a physicist named Donatello Redfield, who claimed his story was based on the true story of a boy named Sam. It was not what he needed, but it was a start. 

“Who are you?”

Castiel drew back, startled, to find Amelia, staring at him, a kitchen knife held in hand. 

“You?” she breathed out, eyes widening. “That’s it, I’m calling the police.”

She raised the phone she was holding in her other hand, quickly dialling.

“Wait,” Castiel tried to say, pushing himself away from the desk.

“James! James!” Amelia yelled, glancing at the door. “James, he’s up here.”

There was running up the stairs, and then a man appeared at the door, dark hair, broad shoulders. He looked at Amelia, then right at Castiel.

Castiel’s mouth dropped open. It was James Wilson, Amelia’s ex-boyfriend. Or husband, judging from the matching rings on their fingers and the picture of the two of them hanging from the wall. 

Of course. Castiel and Amelia had never met. She never broke up with him. 

“He’s the guy I told you about,” Amelia said, voice shaking. Then her attention turned back to her call. “Yes, hello? Police?”

“Get out, Amelia,” James said, moving out of the way and further into the room, never leaving Castiel out of his sight. Amelia ran away, all the while trying to both talk with the police and yelling herself hoarse for help.

Castiel lifted his hands to show he was harmless. “I know what this looks like.”

“Don’t move,” James warned through gritted teeth. His stance was stiff but wide, like a hunter ready to jump on his prey.

“Look, I’m only looking for the old television.”

“The police will be here very soon,” James said, eyes never moving away from Castiel. There was noise from downstairs, voices, then another man appeared at the doorstep, with some grey dusted through his thick beard and curly hair. Castiel had only seen a picture of him from twenty years ago, but there was no mistaking the cold, blue eyes of the man.

Chuck Shurley, the killer from next door himself. 

Castiel glanced around the room. This was getting him nowhere and the longer he was here, the more difficult it’d be for him to get away. “All I need is the television that was inside the closet and then I’ll disappear,” he tried, taking a step backward, hoping to show submissiveness.

Clearly the message did not get across, because James darted forward. He slammed into Castiel, sending him to the floor. 

Castiel fell, hitting his head hard enough to be left dazed and disoriented. 

Chuck was on him, too, holding his arms down, while James drew his fist back and punched Castiel. Again. And again. Pain exploded across his skull, his vision going red.

The third time, the world faded out, darkness swallowing Castiel up. 

**7:39 PM**

Castiel came to with a groan. The world was still blurry at the edges, and his whole face was throbbing. As were his hands. He tried to move, but there was something stopping him. He blinked, concentrating until the figures standing across the room became clear.

He was still in his— _Amelia’s—_ house, but this time he was tied to a chair. There was Amelia, a hand covering her mouth, and James, talking to a tall man that had his back to Castiel. And of course there was Chuck, his arm around— 

Castiel blinked again, but what he saw didn’t change.

Becky Rosen had both her arms around Chuck’s middle, holding him tightly. And she looked pretty different from what Castiel remembered her. For one, she looked terrified, but also she looked more put together. She was nothing like the withdrawn woman that barely took care of herself that Castiel had had dinner with just last night. 

Another woman, one with a long black dress and wavy hair, turned to look at him. She gasped. “He’s awake.”

The tall man turned, and Detective Dean’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

Castiel’s stomach dropped. Of all the police officers that could have come, it had to be Dean.

“Becky, why don’t you and Amara go back home?” Chuck suggested, pushing Becky towards the other woman. “It’ll only upset you if you’re here.”

“Of course. We still have to prepare for the dinner party tonight anyway.” Amara wrapped an arm around Becky’s shoulder, guiding her away, but not before she patted a comforting hand on Chuck’s shoulder. Who was she? Castiel wondered, his eyes following them. 

“Mr. Novak,” Dean said, tucking his notebook—the same one he’d used when he asked Castiel about Claire earlier—back in his pocket. “Good to see you’ve joined us.”

“He was at the hospital,” Amelia shrieked. “He was saying all these nonsense about us being married.”

“It’s okay, Dr. Hailey,” Dean reassured her with a strained smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got it from here.”

He took a set of handcuffs, gesturing for James and Chuck to help him. In less than a minute they had Castiel released from the rope tying him to the chair and into the cuffs. With a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, giving him a soft squeeze, so quick Castiel thought he might have imagined it, Dean led him outside and into the car waiting there. It wasn’t the same one Dean had used to drive him to the hospital just this morning. This one was a big, black, muscle car.

He pushed Castiel into the backseat, locking the car before turning around and exchanging a few words with James and Chuck. Probably making arrangements for them to come to the station to give their statements. 

Castiel let himself sink into the seat, the cold metal biting into his skin. He’d been so close. So close. 

The door slammed closed, and he opened his eyes. Without looking at him, Dean turned the engine on. They drove in silence for a couple of minutes, passing by the same suburban homes Castiel had passed by yesterday while driving to Claire’s school. Suddenly, Dean pulled over, killing the engine. He dropped his head on the wheel, shoulders shaking.

“Shit, Cas. What were you thinking?” he asked, voice rough. Running a hand through his hair, he turned to face Castiel, his expression thinly veiled defeat. “Give me one reason not to arrest you.”

Castiel’s heart twisted, painfully. After everything he’d done, after everything pointing to him being a liar, Dean was willing to give him one more chance. Why he’d ever do that, Castiel didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“I know where to find Sam Winchester. Or at least, I know someone who might help us.”


	6. Chapter 6

**1989**

**10:28 AM**

Police officers were intimidating, Sam decided. The two detectives that were taking his statement were guarded and eyeing him with suspicion. John Winchester’s equally intimidating glare from the seat next to Sam surely wasn’t helping. 

Sam hadn’t realized that they’d call their dad as soon as he and Dean stepped foot inside the police department to tell them about Mrs. Naomi. To him, Dean was big enough to handle this. Dean was always the one taking care of him, not Dad. And surely Dean had known to take the wristwatch to the police. It had been there that things started going downhill.

“Do you remember what time it was that you broke into your neighbor’s apartment?” one of the detectives asked, leafing through his notes.

The same questions again and again. It was like they didn’t believe him, and truth be told, Sam was already regretting his decision to come here. “It must have been around nine? I know it was after nine thirty when I finally managed to get out again.”

“Are we done here?” Dad growled next to him. “The boy has already answered all your questions.”

“We just want to be sure we have all our facts straight, Mr. Winchester,” the detective with the big nose said, leaning back against his chair. “This is a serious crime Sam is accusing your neighbor of.”

“Mr. Chuck killed Mrs. Naomi,” Sam insisted, a hint of desperation bleeding through his calm facade. “I know he did. I saw her in the bathtub, just like I saw him cut her up and put her in a suitcase.”

“And we are going to investigate this claim,” the other detective, the one with the shaved head, answered, exchanging a look with his colleague. 

Whatever silent discussion was happening between them, it seemed that they had what they wanted from them. A couple of minutes later, Sam and his father were being escorted outside, where Dean was waiting for them by the Impala.

“Sammy! Dad,” Dean exclaimed the moment he caught a glimpse of them and darted towards them.

Sam didn’t have the mind to be ashamed when he lunged into his brother’s arms. It had been a long night and an even longer day, and all he really wanted to do was stay in his bed for the rest of his life. There was a giant pit of dread where his stomach should be, and despite knowing he was safe in his house with Dean and Dad, the thought of going back, of being just a street away from Mr. Chuck and his bloody instruments terrified him. He didn’t know why he’d killed Mrs. Naomi, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sam, too, if he knew Sam had seen everything.

With his face buried in Dean’s jacket, he couldn’t see the expressions on Dean or their dad’s faces, and he didn’t particularly care. All he cared about was clinging onto Dean for the drive back home.

**1:19 PM**

Sam watched with his nose pressed against the window as the police car rolled onto their street. Detective Big Nose and Detective Shaved Head walked up to the house across the street from his and knocked on the door, and before long Chuck appeared to greet them. 

Badges were held up, there was some movement of heads and Chuck’s gaze moved up to stare straight at Sam.

He ducked out of view, his back against the wall, his heart at his throat. Chuck _knew_ now. He knew Sam was the one who’d found Mrs. Naomi. He knew Sam was the one who’d sent the police to his house.

Grabbing his blanket from his bed and wrapping it around himself, Sam found his brother in their kitchen, scrubbing at their sink after washing the dishes they’d used for lunch.

“Hey, you got out of bed,” Dean said instead of a greeting, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“The police are here,” Sam said, pressing himself against his brother’s side. He was cold, trembling, no matter how tight he held the blanket around him. “Are they going to arrest him?”

Dean looked up from the sink to check over his shoulder in the general direction of Chuck’s house. It wasn’t visible from their kitchen, but in the last few hours it seemed that both of them glanced in that direction more often than not. It was like staring at a bomb that might go off at any moment without a warning. 

Sam had no way of escaping the shrapnel. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Dean said, squeezing him in a hug with a reassuring, if a little wet hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing telling those detectives, you know that, right?”

“I guess,” Sam mumbled, though he wasn’t entirely convinced yet. 

**Three Days Later**

**11:44 AM**

Sam had spent three days in bed, refusing to get up for anything else other than the bathroom and some food. Dean talking to him didn’t help, and John yelling himself hoarse outside his door certainly didn’t.

From his bed he could see Chuck’s house. He could see Chuck taking his dog on a walk every morning. 

What were the detectives waiting for?

Finally, one morning as gray as the others before it, Dean came into his room. The bed dipped with his weight, and a warm hand found its way on Sam’s back.

“The police are here,” he said softly. “They want to talk to you.”

“Do I have to go?” Sam asked, his body feeling slow and sluggish as he hadn’t slept properly since the storm. Since Castiel.

“Sorry, buddy, I don’t think you can brood your way out of this,” Dean said, joked, though it fell flat, even to his own ears judging from the heavy sigh that followed. “Just... Do it for _me._ It’d be nice to see you get up more, and you won’t have to go that far, only as far as our living room.”

Sam’s stomach clenched, but rationally, he knew Dean was right. The detectives were the good guys, there was no reason to be scared of them.

On wobbly legs, Sam followed his brother downstairs, a hand fisted in Dean’s shirt, low on his back. He was almost down the stairs, just one more step and he’d reached the floor, when he turned his head towards the living room and caught a glimpse of the people waiting there.

Sam froze, his hold on Dean stopping his brother, too, who turned to watch him with worried eyes. 

Dean took his hand, a palm on his shoulder to gently guide him to the room where they were waiting for them. “Come on, it’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“What’s he doing here?” Sam asked, eyes glued to three men sitting on the couch across from their dad. Detectives Big Nose and Shaved Head were taking up the two ends of the couch, while Chuck sat between them, rough stubble covering his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t look like a man under arrest.

“Look, I tried to tell Dad you weren’t comfortable with this,” Dean said, kneeling to bring his face to Sam’s eye level. “I tried, really, but the detectives wouldn’t take no for an answer. So please, just let’s get this over with.”

Dean’s eyes were dim and hollow, his skin pale and taut in a way Sam only ever saw when Dean was sick. Except Dean wasn’t sick. Sam was sure of that, just as he was sure that his brother had spent the last few days arguing with their father. Their voices were hard to ignore, even from under his blankets.

“Sammy, please,” Dean pleaded, voice shaking.

He was scared, Sam realized. And that most of all made all the blood drain from inside him. He felt faint all of a sudden, and he was sure that if it wasn’t for Dean’s hands on him, he’d have fallen to the floor long ago. 

Instead, with strength he didn’t know he had, Sam nodded. Once. 

Dean’s mouth pressed into a thin line, before gently guiding him inside the room and making him sit with Dad. 

The detectives gazed at him, and opened their notebooks to tell him the results of their investigation. 

“There is no evidence of any criminal activity in Mr. Shurley’s house,” Detective Big Nose said.

“We searched the whole house and didn’t find a single trace of blood,” Detective Shaved Head added, glaring in Sam’s direction, like he was blaming him for losing his precious time. “While it is true that Mrs. Shurley is missing, we found a note she wrote to her husband, and in it she explains she’s leaving him to move to Canada with her lover.”

“No,” Sam said lowly. The dark pit that had been inside him from the moment he’d turned that watch over to the police grew, expanding, and consuming him. “But I, I saw her.”

“We’ve contacted the authorities there and confirmed that Naomi Shurley crossed the border two days ago,” Detective Shaved Head continued, as if Sam had never spoken. “And we’ve also confirmed that she withdrew all the money she had in her account from an ATM there.”

“It’s officially case closed on the disappearance of Naomi Shurley,” Detective Big Nose added. “But we do have one more case to deal with—yours. You broke into your neighbor’s house and stole his watch.”

“Look, I don’t want to cause trouble for the boy,” Chuck said, interrupting the detectives. “I got my watch back, and I guess I know where my wife is now, so let’s just call this case closed as well so we can all forget about it and move on.”

“But,” Sam tried to say, only for his father’s heavy hand on his shoulder to silence him.

“I assure you,” his dad growled, making Sam cower back until he’d either have to melt into the couch or start running, “that his behavior won’t go unpunished.”

It wasn’t a promise Dad made lightly, Sam knew, and from the look of them, so did the officers. Chuck’s eyes were only on him, though.

“Since this little misunderstanding is resolved, I think I’m going to go.” He pushed himself up, knees popping, and somehow his shoulders seemed lighter than Sam had seen in the last few days from his window. “My sister arrived today to visit, and I can’t leave her alone for too long. I wouldn’t be a good host if I did.”

The two policemen followed Chuck out of the house, tipping their hats in goodbye and getting more assurances out of Dad that this incident wouldn’t be repeated. He was lucky, they said, because Chuck didn’t want to press charges and so he wouldn’t have to be punished for breaking and entering or for stealing.

**7:15 PM**

“What’s gotten into you, huh?” Dad yelled, hitting his fist on the table. “What were you thinking breaking into his house?”

“He killed his wife, why can’t you believe me?” Sam cried for the hundredth time that day, tears running down his cheeks. “I saw her in the bathtub, and I saw him using a saw to cut her up and put her in a suitcase.”

“Lies,” his father insisted, face contorted with rage. “Is this some twisted cry for attention? Is that how I brought you up, boy?”

“Dad, I think that’s enough,” Dean said, wrapping an arm around Sam’s shoulders and pulling him close. “He made a mistake.”

“He broke into our neighbor’s house and stole from him,” John said, holding up an accusing finger. 

Sam had never seen Dad like this before. Even when he was drinking, even when he was mad out of his mind, he had never been like this before, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, a vein pulsing high on his temple. He didn’t look like Dad at all. 

“That’s not how it happened. The man in the television said that Mr. Chuck did something terrible, and he was right. You know he was right,” Sam said, sobbing, and he pressed himself tighter against his brother. 

“The man in the television,” Dad mocked him. “You made him up to cover up for your mistakes. This is not what Winchesters do. Winchesters own up to their mistakes.”

“Dad, stop it,” Dean said.

“Stop it? You’re taking his side? I should have guessed it’s your fault your brother has all these weird ideas in his head. A man inside the TV. Do you even listen to what he’s saying, Dean? Either he’s crazy or he’s a criminal, and I don’t know what’s worse.”

“I’m not crazy! The man’s name is Castiel, and he’s from the future. He knew about Mr. Shurley, just like he knew lightning would hit the old clock tower and school would be cancelled. I couldn’t have made that up, Dean, I couldn’t.” He looked up to his brother, feeling his throat raw and his eyes stinging. “Dean, you believe me, right? Castiel is real.”

“Yeah, of course, buddy. I believe you,” Dean reassured him, but where his words were a soothing balm on Sam’s anxious heartbeat, they seemed to have the opposite effect on their father.

“You’re coddling him too much. This is your fault, Dean. You’ve been filling his head with so much crap it was inevitable he’d turn into a delinquent.”

“He’s not a delinquent,” Dean said, pushing at Sam, using gentle hands to guide him behind him so that he was standing between him and their father. “He’s just a child. Jesus, Dad, do you really think Sam would start breaking into people’s houses without a good reason?”

“A man on the TV told him to do so is not a good enough excuse.”

“Maybe if you’d let him talk to us, he could explain. Maybe Castiel is real, and we’re the idiots that don’t trust our own family.”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” their father warned, taking a threatening step towards them. He wasn’t reeking of alcohol, but Sam cowered back all the same. “All I’ve ever done was to protect this family, and you, all _you_ had to do was take care of your brother. All you had to do was feed him and keep him out of trouble, and instead I come home to find the police on _my_ doorstep, accusing _my son_ of being a thief, and it’s all _your_ fault.”

“Maybe none of that would have happened if you were ever around when it actually mattered, Dad,” Dean shot back, raising his voice. 

Sam could see Dean’s muscles trembling from behind, could read his rage in every line of his body, and truth be told, that scared him more than Dad did. Dad was predictable. He was always yelling at them, but Dean was never one to talk back. If they were about to butt heads, then there was no way to predict how this would end.

“Maybe if you stayed home instead of going out to drink yourself to sleep every night, then maybe you’d know your own kids, and you’d know that Sam doesn’t lie.”

“Oh so now it’s my fault,” Dad shouted, banging his fist against the table, hard enough this time to make the glass of water resting on it topple over, fall to the ground and shatter in a hundred pieces. Dad stalked around the table, his boots crunching over the broken glass. “Now it’s my fault that you can’t pull your weight around here, huh, Dean? It’s my fault that your brother is a liar and a thief?”

“But I’m not,” Sam insisted, pressing himself back against the wall.

Speaking was the wrong thing to do,because now Dad’s attention was on him again. Something behind his eyes turned cold, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I’ve been too soft on you,” their father said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “It’s time to teach you a lesson.”

Dad moved fast, stepping up towards Sam, hand raised, but Dean was fast, too. Just as Sam broke down, tears running down his cheeks, his brother caught their father by the arm, and spun him around.

“Dad, stop.”

“Don’t touch me,” Dad cried out, shaking Dean off. He raised his fist, and Dean was still yelling, firmly standing between Dad and Sam, but Dad was too far gone to listen.

Suddenly his fist was slamming into the side of Dean’s face, John’s hand curling into Dean’s shirt to keep him upright while the second hit landed, and Sam was screaming and yelling. For his brother, for his father, for help. For someone to help. He had his hands pressed over his ears, and Dean was still clutching at Dad’s shirt, desperate. 

Just like that, Dad deflated. His shoulders slumped, and he released Dean to collapse on the table like his strings had been cut.

“That better become a lesson for both of you,” Dad growled, with blood on his knuckles. He lumbered out of the room, his footsteps echoing heavy and unsteady until the front door opened and closed. 

In the silence that followed, Dean stirred with a groan, and Sam dared to move away from the wall.

“Dean, are you okay? Dean?”

Dean caught his hand in the air, stopping Sam from touching him. His lip was split, and there was the beginning of an ugly bruise forming under his eye.

“Are you okay, Sammy?”

“Me? Dean, I’m fine, but you…I mean Dad…”

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Dean promised, pushing himself up on unsteady feet. “I promise you, it’s going to be okay.”

“But, but Dad—and Castiel—I’m not a liar. Castiel is real. I’m telling you he’s real.”

“Hey, I believe you, okay. I believe you. Go up to your room, and I’ll fix this. Okay?”

“But—”

“Go to your room, Sam.”

Sam had never disobeyed his brother before. Dean was older, and he knew better, so it only made sense that Sam would do as he was told. Except that night his room felt anything but safe, and Sam was worried enough for Dean that he wasn’t willing to stay too far away. So he hid by the stairs, where he would be able to see if Dad came home, and he was close enough to hear everything his brother was doing in the next room.

Dean cleaned everything up, gathering the broken glass from the floor, and straightening the chair that Dad had thrown down. Then he picked up the phone, and after a moment he said, “Hey, Bobby, it’s me. Listen, something happened, and I don’t think we can stay here any longer. Yeah, it’s Dad. No, I can’t. I’ll tell you once you’re here. Alright, I’ll get our stuff ready then.”


	7. Chapter 7

**2014**

**9:10 PM**

Castiel came out of the shower feeling like a new man. He finally had a plan, something concrete to lead him to his target. Sam Winchester was the key to solving this, he was sure of it. 

Dean looked up from the desk. The motel room was small, with barely enough room to fit the two queen beds and the desk crammed in there, but it was better than sleeping on a bench. Castiel hadn’t expected Dean to stick around, but the man had insisted Castiel never left his sight, and after running away from him back at the hospital, maybe he was right.

“Looking good,” Dean commented, offering Castiel a soft smile. 

“I feel better,” he admitted, wrapping his arms around himself self-consciously. The borrowed clothes fit him nicely, surprisingly, though they didn’t look like they were Dean’s size. They were also soft and warm, and far better than the suit Castiel had spent the last day in. He was lucky Dean had a duffel bag with extra clothes in his car just in case.

“You know I’m surprised you agreed to wait until tomorrow to find that Donatello guy,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d removed his leather jacket, and now he was only in his jeans and henley. It was almost like he was relaxing at home after a long day at work, and Castiel…

Castiel had to keep his mind on his goal. Claire was his goal. There was no time for him to lose himself in the blurred lines between a detective and a, a…What was Castiel to Dean? Was he a witness? Certainly not a victim. Just someone that needed help.

“Hey, you okay?”

Castiel snapped out of his thoughts and found Dean frowning at him. He was waiting for an answer. Yes, that was how conversations usually worked. Both people had to speak.

“Yeah, I was just thinking that it’s inconvenient I only found that guy’s work address, and not his home,” he said simply. It was the truth, just as it was the truth that he was exhausted. He couldn’t even remember how long it had been since he’d gotten some proper rest—waking up at his office couch this morning didn’t count. “What about you, Dean? Don’t you have a family to go back to tonight? Kids? A wife?”

Dean dropped his eyes, bronze-tipped lashes fanning over freckled cheeks, and swallowed. “My partner and I don’t have kids,” he said slowly. The light above their heads was dim and yellowish, but with every flash of lightning from outside the white glare washed over both of them, making Dean’s eyes seem hollow, his skin washed out. “We’re focusing on our careers for now.”

“Does your work keep you away from your partner often?”

A smile crept up Dean’s face, but there was a bitter edge to it. “Never. But my partner is… away on a business trip these days, so it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel offered, walking towards the bed. “When are they coming back?”

“Soon,” Dean said, looking up and straight at Castiel. “I hope.”

**9:26 AM**

“The electrical vortex that is created due to the electromagnetic forces applied on both ends is powerful enough to create an opening,” the man said, tapping his chalk-dusted fingertips against the blackboard. He had white hair and round glasses perched at the tip of his nose. His cardigan had a coffee stain right over his belly, and every single pair of eyes in the auditorium was focused on him and his calculations spanning the board behind him. 

Donatello Redfield was a world renowned physicist, according to the wiki page Castiel had found last night, but he was also a writer. And it was one of his books that had brought Castiel and Dean in his classroom that day. They sat in the back of the room, watching as Donatello explained the lesson to his students, and Castiel wasn’t afraid to admit that he couldn’t keep up with what they were saying. Castiel hadn’t thought about physics since he was in high school, and he figured even back then, his knowledge had been limited. 

Next to him, Dean didn’t seem to be doing any better. Nursing a cup of coffee, the detective seemed to have been lost in a daydream, and though his eyes were glued to the board, he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking through it.

One long hour later, the students all around them started shuffling around, gathering their stuff and throwing their bags over their shoulders. They trickled out of the auditorium in small groups, laughing and joking without a care in the world, and only Castiel and Dean made their way through the crowd and toward the professor, who was now erasing the mess of equations on the whiteboard.

“Professor Redfield?” Castiel asked, coming to stand by the desk where the professor had left his laptop and papers on.

“Office hours are posted on the site.” Donatello finished cleaning the board, rubbed his hands together to try and get some chalk off them, and turned to face them. Tilting his head in confusion, he looked between them. “You two look a little old to be taking my class.”

“We’re not students, we’re here to talk about a book you wrote. It’s called _During the Storm._ ” Dean flashed his badge, giving the professor an expectant look. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”

“I have a ten minute break before my next lecture. Let’s go. We can talk in my office.”

Haphazardly stacking his papers and laptop in his arms, the professor nodded towards the smaller door by the blackboard. He led them down a maze of corridors, notes flying off of his stack every couple of steps, but since he didn’t bother to stop and gather them, neither did Castiel and Dean.

Donatello’s office was quite spacious for a professor, Castiel supposed, though it was hard to tell with how cramped it felt. Heavy bookcases lined every wall, leather bound tomes stacked on straining shelves, degrees and honors taking up the few empty spaces here and there. For the amount of stuff in the room, and despite the way Donatello dropped everything he was carrying in a spare chair by the window, it was quite tidy in there. Almost homey in a way. 

Donatello gestured at the chairs in front of his desk, before sitting on the leather chair behind it. He threaded his fingers together over his belly, leaning back against his chair, and raised an eyebrow at them. “ _During the Storm,”_ he said to himself almost wistfully. “One of my best works, if I do say so myself. It’s not the only fiction I’ve written, but it is the most intriguing. What do you two want to know?”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look. What they were here for was kind of difficult to put into words. In Castiel’s experience, most people would rather call him crazy than stick around long enough to actually listen to him. 

Finally, Dean shrugged, as if to say ‘ _it’s worth a try’_.

“You say in the author’s note that the story is based on a true story,” Dean said, turning his attention back to the professor. With his back straight and his shoulders back, he was quite an intimidating figure. He’d slipped back into his detective persona as soon as he and Castiel had gotten into his car that morning, and yet, he wasn’t nearly as sympathetic or as approachable as he’d been when Castiel had come to him for help yesterday.

Donatello nodded, spinning his chair around to reach for a book on the shelf behind him. He opened it to the first page, where his photo was printed on the top and underneath a couple of paragraphs were printed in small, blocky letters. He pushed the book towards Castiel. “Sam’s father reached out to me. By then the boy had been admitted to the psychiatric ward of Lawrence Memorial, suffering from hallucinations and delusions. His father wanted to know if the story the boy was telling could be true.”

“The story?” Castiel asked, eyes skimming over the author’s note the professor had shown him, though he’d already read it online a few hours ago. 

“The boy insisted that he made contact with a man from the future that warned him about his neighbor murdering his wife. It seemed from what the man told me that his son’s delusions had created a rift between him and his family, that had made both his sons move away to live with their uncle. He was a broken man when I met him, obviously tormented by the loss of his children, and desperate to make amends.”

Dean was visibly tense next to Castiel, his muscles vibrating under his jaw. He crossed his arms over his chest, before changing his mind and lowering them against his side, hands curled into fists. “If his problem was with his kids, why did he reach out to you?”

Donatello turned to face Dean, round glasses slipping down his nose. “He wanted to know if what the boy was saying could be true. If the electrical storm that night could have created a time-space wrap in symmetrical parallel timelines. A connection, essentially, that could have allowed two people decades apart to communicate like in a video call.”

The crackle of thunder outside drowned everything for a few seconds, making Castiel’s ear ring. After couple of beats, more lighting lit up the room through the blinds, illuminating Donatello’s profile in a harsh glare.

“And what did you tell him?” Dean asked.

“The truth. The meteorological conditions of that night, paired with an identical storm over the exact same location, on the exact date years later, could have truly created that connection. But _could_ is a far cry from _did._ It wasn’t what Mr. Winchester wanted to hear.”

“What happened to Sam?” Castiel asked, looking up from the book. His hands were shaking, and he buried them between his knees in an effort to stop them.

“I don’t know. I tried to reach out to him, but his uncle refused to give me any information on him or his brother. Of course visiting him in the hospital was out of the question without permission. In the end it didn’t matter. I had all the information I needed for my book.” 

Donatello pressed his glasses back up his nose, before turning to look at the rain-splattered window. “His father never tried to contact me again, but I did get a lawsuit from the uncle a couple of years later for basing my book on Sam’s story. It was settled outside of court so I never met any of them.”

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “So all you cared about was your book. Not about that poor boy. Certainly not about his father.”

“I’m a physicist and part-time writer,” Donatello said, narrowing his eyes at Dean’s cold tone. “I’m not a psychiatrist. I couldn’t have helped any of them more than I did.”

Ignoring the glaring contest happening right before his eyes, Castiel took a deep breath. “So you don’t have a way to contact Sam Winchester?”

“No, I don’t,” Donatello said, tearing his eyes away from Dean. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, I never met him.”

“But I need to find him. I need to find Sam Winchester,” Castiel said, shattering inside. His last hope, and it still had ended in a dead end. “What you wrote in this book, it’s true. It’s all true. I’m the man from the future, and I managed to make contact with Sam using his old television and his camera a couple of nights ago. I warned him about his neighbor, and judging from the fact that your book exists and by some peculiar butterfly effect my daughter doesn’t, he listened to me, and he didn’t die.”

“The story in my book is pure fabrication,” the professor corrected him. “It’s a story I made up, based on a story a boy suffering from Schizophrenia made up.”

“But I’m here,” Castiel insisted, feeling the now familiar mix of hopelessness and frustration well up inside him. “I’m here, and I’m telling you that I talked with Sam Winchester, and I lost my daughter. I remember him, and the storm is happening right now.”

The boom of thunder echoed his words, the steady _pat pat pat_ of the rain against the window previously a constant background noise to their discussion now momentarily interrupted.

Donatello shook his head, and Castiel’s stomach dropped. 

“It’s real to you,” the professor said, delicately. “Maybe you read the book and convinced yourself it’s the story of your life. Reality is subjective. See, this is the biggest question we’re trying to answer currently. How can we tell what is real or not, when our brain interprets hallucinations as a part of our life. In the same way miracles and gods used to be a part of everyday life back in the day before science explained the natural phenomena, your brain chooses to present a distorted image of your experiences and make it part of _your_ reality. Does that make it any more true than the feverish dreams of angels visiting a man on his deathbed?”

“But you said it’s plausible,” Castiel said and shook Dean’s gentle hand when he tried to touch his shoulder. “You said that the two storms could have created that connection, and the storm is here.”

“Cas,” Dean said, voice soft, in complete contrast to how he’d addressed the professor just moments ago. Cas, though, didn’t have time to deal with him.

“If it happened one time, how can I do it again?”

“You want to make contact with Sam Winchester in the past again? Why would you want that?” Donatello asked, barely concealing his disbelief and amusement. Another person that thought he was crazy. At this point Castiel didn’t care. As long as he got the answers he needed, Donatello Redfield could think whatever he wanted of him.

“I changed something when I saved him, and it cost me my daughter, my life. I have to get them back,” Castiel explained, patient as ever. He didn’t even spare a glance in Dean’s direction to see the way he curled in on himself, shoulders rising up like he’d been hurt.

“Assuming that you _can_ do it, you’d have to recreate the original situation. Same location, same electrical conditions, and of course same time. That means you’ll have to find the TV you used back then, the camera that Sam described in his story, and of course, you’d have to do it during the storm.”

“And what happens if the storm ends?”

“Then it’s over,” Donatello said. “The window to the past will forever be lost, and you’ll never be able to reach out to Sam again.”

**11:05 AM**

Dean’s car was warm. They’d been sitting inside the sleek, black Impala without talking for a few minutes now, and Castiel’s mind was already hard at work. Maybe Donatello Redfield hadn’t led him to Sam Winchester, but it had confirmed what he’d suspected all along. Without the TV and that camera, he’d never get his family back. The only problem was that now he had a time limit, too. He had to get Claire back before the storm ended, or he wouldn’t be getting her back at all.

Black clouds sprawled across the sky above them, the scent of rain now strong and heady as it permeated the air. Looking outside the window, Castiel couldn’t have guessed that it was only midday. Lightning rolled across the town, chasing away the false twilight for a few charged seconds and casting Dean in its silvery light. His eyes were gentle on Castiel, something bitter in the curve of his lips. 

“So,” Dean said, breaking the silence between them. He smoothed his collar almost self consciously, before continuing. “What’s the plan now?”

“What it has always been,” Castiel said. “We find Sam. Or someone from his family. I need to get that television and camera back, and if it wasn’t in my house, then maybe his brother has it, or maybe his uncle does.”

Dean shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “We don’t even know their names. How are we going to find them?”

“You can look for Winchesters in the police records, can’t you?” Castiel asked. “Sam walked into a police station and accused Chuck Shurley of murdering his wife, an investigation happened, there has to be a file somewhere.”

“Look, Cas, this is not how things work, okay?” Dean said, voice steady like he was talking to a child. “This is real life, not a movie. Asking for the files of an old investigation will take time.” He sighed, closing his eyes. When he met Castiel’s gaze again, there was a determination to the line of his mouth. “What if you have a family? What if there is someone out there that cares about you, loves you? Are you going to destroy that?”

“The storm has been going on for 58 hours already,” Castiel said, checking his phone. He didn’t even acknowledge Dean’s statement. There was no family to him other than Claire. There was nothing more important than her. “In 1989 it lasted for 72 hours. If they are truly symmetrical, that leaves us with less than 14 hours to get my daughter back. Can you help me or not?”

“I don’t know how, Cas,” Dean said, desperation leaking through his words. “Your story is not strong enough to get me access to those files. I believe you, but I’m not sure anyone else will.”

“So what do you need to get access to those files?” Castiel asked. 

“I don’t know. Something concrete. Something that would reopen the Shurley investigation.”

“Something that would reopen the Shurley investigation,” Castiel repeated, thinking back to the man he had never seen in his life until a few hours ago but was instrumental in getting Claire back. He hadn’t looked very guilt-ridden while they were waiting for the police to arrive. He’d even moved on to a new wife. Becky Rosen of all people. And to think that Anna had seemed so disgusted of him when she was telling them of the murder over dinner. 

That dinner... 

Castiel had searched the murder case after everyone left, and Chuck Shurley had confessed everything. He’d even confessed where he was going to bury the body.

“I have something concrete for you,” Castiel said, holding that one last spark of hope close to his heart.

**5:47 PM**

The cabin was in Chuck’s sister’s, Amara Shurley’s name and it was near the lake just outside Lawrence. Getting there was the easy part. The hard part was doing nothing while Dean led his team in an investigation of the area around it in search of a dead body. A tip could go a long way in getting things moving, but just a tip was not enough. They needed to have hard evidence for Dean to be able to get fast access to the old investigation.

It had taken two hours for the dogs to find something in the mud, and another hour of officers digging, before Castiel heard metal hitting something solid and hollow. Just like that, everyone’s demeanor changed. A crime scene, even if it was the secondary one, had to be treated with care, or the evidence left there would be lost, Dean explained to him. Castiel wasn’t sure what kind of evidence the police were going to find when twenty five years had passed since Naomi’s death, but he thought it didn’t really matter. If what the officers dug up was a body, then he’d have completed the first step towards his goal.

Soon enough Dean’s men uncovered a suitcase, and though Castiel was too far away to be able to see its contents when they opened it, he knew what was inside. In just a few seconds, the amount of men around the buried remains decreased to only the bare minimum, as paths were laid down to ensure officers wouldn’t step on evidence, and dogs were sent out to search the rest of the area. The coroner didn’t take long to arrive after that.

A makeshift camp had been set up for the officers working the case close to the crime scene, and Castiel had been ordered to stay there while everyone else was working. At least that meant he was mostly safe from the drizzle. 

“We have to be sure who the remains belong to,” Dean said, placing a cup of coffee on the table next to Castiel, who dropped his head, feeling his chest collapsing with his sigh.

“How long is this going to take?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said grimacing.

Castiel looked up at him sharply, not bothering to hold back his glare. “Is there _anything_ that you do know?”

“Hey, the DA is coming down here any moment,” Dean said, raising his hands in surrender. “With his involvement things will move along faster. That’s a good thing, you know.” He took the seat next to Castiel, resting his elbows on his knees. The cup of coffee was still waiting on the table, left unacknowledged by Castiel, but Dean didn’t seem much bothered by that. His sole attention was focused on Castiel.

Clearing his throat, Dean said, “I’m going to be honest with you for a moment. At this stage, you’re as much a suspect for that murder as is Chuck Shurley. The DA will be asking questions, like how did you know where to find the body?”

Rubbing a palm over his face, Castiel braced himself. “I read an article about Naomi’s murder before I talked with Sam and changed the past. Chuck confessed the murder and told the police he was planning on burying the body here.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly. A beat, drawn out longer by the heavy atmosphere pressing all around them. “You do realize how that sounds, right?”

“It’s the truth. I’m sorry that it’s not convenient for you, but that’s all I got. I thought you believed me.” Frustration and anger fizzled under his skin, strong enough that Castiel was practically vibrating with it. He had a little over seven hours left, and Dean was not making his life easier.

Lips pinched together, Dean rolled his shoulders back, a jerky movement in complete contrast to the smooth way he usually moved. Castiel didn’t have the time to wonder what it meant that he felt like he knew Dean so well to notice those kinds of things. Time was the only thing he didn’t have.

“I don’t get it,” Dean said, tapping his fingers against his knee. He took his notebook out, drawing a straight line. “If this is your ‘original’ timeline, as you call it, then when you talked with Sam and saved him, you erased it, creating this new reality we’re currently living in.” He followed his words with scratching an x on the straight line to mark the point Sam was saved and the butterfly effect took place. From there he drew a new line, running parallel to the first one. He pointed at it. “If you’re living here now, and you’ve lived here since the moment Sam Winchester didn’t die, then why do you still have the memories from the other timeline?”

“There’s a dead body a few feet away from us, and the more time we spend here, the less likely it is I’ll get my daughter back, and this is what you care about? Castiel hissed, heat flushing through him. He slanted back against his chair, suddenly feeling like being close to Dean was only an invitation to punch the man in the face.

Dean shrugged, for all intents and purposes unaware of Castiel’s distress. “I’m curious. You lived a whole life, a different life than the one you remember. I assume that the reason you woke up today with the old memories in your head is because of the storm, so if the storm passes, there’s a good chance you’ll forget all about it and go back to your old, uhm, _this_ life.”

“But I don’t want that life,” Castiel exploded. “There’s nothing here for me that could ever be more important than Claire. You don’t understand, because you don’t have children, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. She is not a broken memory like you think, _she_ is my world. A new family would never be able to replace her.”

Lowering his head, Dean dropped his eyes away from Castiel, the color draining from his face. He bit his lower lip, barely suppressing a huff. “Right. You don’t care about them,” he said in a low voice, low enough that Castiel suspected it wasn’t for him to listen. “Let me make a couple of calls.”

Dean pushed himself up, walking away with uneven steps. From behind, his drooping shoulders made him look far smaller than he really was. 

Castiel watched him as he paced the area near the site where they’d found Naomi, his phone glued to his ear, then he moved to talk to the officers. A lifetime later, Dean came back, opening his notebook and scribbling something down quickly.

“I can’t do much right now, because my hands are tied with the investigation.” He glanced briefly over his shoulder at a new car arriving. The man that stepped out was in a dark, expensive looking suit, and two officers hurried to shake his hand. “I can give you an address, but you’re on your own from here on out.”

“An address?” Castiel asked, perking up.

Dean nodded, ripping the page out of his notebook and passing it over. “This is where you’ll find what you’re looking for,” he said, but before Castiel could take the folded piece of paper, Dean lifted his hand away, catching his eye. “I’m supposed to keep you into custody, so do me a favor and be discreet when you leave.”

Hand left waiting in mid-air, Castiel frowned. “How am I supposed to leave? It’ll take me hours to get back to Lawrence.”

“Do you remember where I parked the Impala?” Dean asked instead of an answer. 

“Yeah, a two minute walk or so down that road.”

“Good, now take the address and take the keys, too. While the DA is still asking for details on the case everyone will be too distracted to pay you any mind. Get out of here as soon as you can. I wrote my own address on there as well, in case you need it.”

Castiel took the paper and the keys with shaking hands. An overwhelming sense of relief washed over him, heat spreading through his chest. His instinct was telling him to grab Dean and hug him, thank him for helping him and sticking with him almost till the end, but he knew that it wasn’t a wise move when he was about to pretend he was escaping under the detective’s nose. A small part of him was glad he had that restriction, for he was scared if he did embrace Dean, he might never let go.

Heart thudding in his chest, Castiel nodded. 

Dean swallowed and rolled his shoulders back. “Good luck, I guess.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “I’ll get your car back, I promise.”

“You better. She’s my Baby,” Dean said, chuckling, though it sounded hollow. With that, he turned his back and walked away. 

**7:14 PM**

_Spring Hill Suites_ was situated by the riverbank and had a large parking plaza right in front of its entrance. That suited Castiel just fine, because Dean’s Impala was an impractically large car, and he had no patience whatsoever to look for a parking spot that wasn’t large enough for him to leave it without worrying about scratching it. A ridiculous thought, he realized as he walked towards the entrance of the hotel. It was just a car and at the end of the day meant nothing to Castiel, except that it belonged to Dean.

The woman at the reception desk glanced in his direction as he came in, wrinkling her nose at his dusty and dirty clothes. Thankfully, the paper Dean had passed him included a room number along with the name of the hotel, so he hurried towards the elevator. 

This was it, he thought as the door dinged close, and a generic jazz song accompanied him to the top. This was finally the moment where he came face to face with Sam Winchester. He was going to save Claire. 

A male voice was heard from inside the room when Castiel knocked on the door, a familiar male voice, but Castiel didn’t have the time to rack his brain for where he knew it from before the door swung open.

It wasn’t Sam Winchester standing there. 

No, it was a man in his mid-forties, with grey hair around his temples and a bathrobe that had the name of the hotel embroidered over his chest. Castiel knew that man, but clearly the man didn’t know him. 

“You’re not room service.”

“Dr. Miller?” Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion. “I thought…”

He trailed off, trying to understand what he was seeing. Clearly Sam Winchester was not in this room, Dean had made a mistake, and now Castiel had to— 

“Andy? Did they remember to put the dressing for my salad on the side?”

_That_ voice Castiel definitely knew. Vision going dark around the edges, Castiel pushed past Dr. Miller— _Andy,_ an angry voice in the back of his head corrected—and he went further inside the room. 

“Hey, wait. Where do you think you’re going?” Miller asked, trying to stop him, but Castiel shrugged him off. Enough of this bullshit already.

The room was a suite made up of a lounge and a bedroom further back, separated by a screen door. Standing by that screen door, her hair still wet from a shower and wearing a matching bathrobe with Miller, was Amelia. 

“You,” she gasped, bringing a hand up to pull the robe tighter over her chest. “Did you follow me here?”

“Amelia, who is he?” Miller asked, deliberately putting himself between Castiel and Castiel’s wife. Or… his wife in an alternate reality? Well, fuck this alternate reality bullshit, Amelia was still his wife.

Expression hardening, she took a step back. “He’s the stalker I told you about. The one I saw at the hospital.”

“What? And what are you waiting for? Call the police.” Miller turned towards the phone, but Castiel saw the hesitation flashing across Amelia’s expression.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said, puffing his chest out and rolling his shoulders back. “The way I see it, you two have more to lose if the police show up here than I do.” He turned to face his wife, not bothering to hide the hurt in his voice. “You’re cheating on your husband, Amelia. Do you really want him to find out?”

“That’s none of your business,” Miller roared, but it wasn’t his reaction Castiel was looking for. It was Amelia’s, and she went pale. 

“How long?” Castiel demanded, though he knew it was like he was twisting the knife into the wound himself. Amelia gazed up at him, lower lip trembling like she was about to cry, but it only made Castiel more furious. “How long, Amelia?”

“About six months,” she whispered, her face dropping. “But you can’t tell James.”

“James,” Castiel repeated, a bitter chuckle escaping him. He took a step forward, not missing the way Miller shifted his weight to cover Amelia. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” she asked, eyes widening. 

“Give. me. your. hand.”

Exchanging a quick glance with Miller, Amelia came closer but still remained hidden behind her lover. Her hand was shaking when he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, waiting for the flood of memories he knew were coming. 

_There was the sizzling of a pan over rock music, and the scent of bacon was filling his nose. The bed next to him was cold, but Castiel felt content, full in a way he’d never felt before. Someone was making breakfast in the kitchen, and he couldn’t wait to go to them and—_

“That’s enough,” Miller said, slapping Castiel’s hand away and snapping him out of the memory. “What are you doing here? Surely you didn’t follow Amelia here just to hold her hand.”

“No, actually, I didn’t,” Castiel said, looking between them. Amelia wasn’t the reason he was here in the first place, but there was an idea forming in his mind. He didn’t know why Dean had sent him here, but he knew how to twist this in his favor. “I need access to a patient’s file. He was admitted to the psychiatric ward of Lawrence Memorial back in 1989.”

“You’re crazy,” Miller said immediately. “That’s illegal.”

“Oh, you’d rather your wife found out you’ve been fucking your colleague?” When he turned to face Amelia he didn’t even bother to hide his disgust. “Or do you want James to know what you’ve been doing when you’re supposedly ‘saving lives'?”

“That’s a low blow,” she said, her face hardening. “You know nothing about me.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Amelia. I know everything about you,” Castiel said, then his eyes flickered in Miller’s direction. “Or at least I thought I did. Now, you either get me the file I’m looking for, or both of you can save me the trouble and file for divorce yourselves.”

“Amelia, you can’t be seriously considering helping him,” Miller said incredulously, but just from the look on Amelia’s face, Castiel knew. He’d already won.

**7:35 PM**

“Come on, Amelia, hurry up,” Castiel urged her, leaning over her shoulder.

“Accessing a patient’s files isn’t easy,” she said through gritted teeth. “Especially as old as the one you’re asking. Oh, wait a minute, here it is. Sam Winchester, admitted to the psychiatric ward by his uncle, suffering from hallucinations and psychotic episodes.”

“Any address?” Castiel asked, scanning the document Amelia had pulled on the screen.

She shook her head. “Not that I can see, but even if it did have one, I doubt it’d still be correct. Oh, wait, there’s something interesting. After he was released from the hospital, the psychiatrist kept seeing him once a month for a few years, but it seems he changed his name.”

“What is it?” Castiel wanted to ask, but the question never made it past his lips. Eyes widening, he stared at the screen.

Unaware of his shock, Amelia pointed at the screen, saying, “Sam Singer, like his uncle. See, it says so right here. Sam Singer. Still no address, though. Are we done now?”

“Yes, we are,” Castiel mumbled. standing straight again. He felt faint all of a sudden, his hand instinctively finding a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. “I think I know where to find him now.”

**8:02 PM**

The apartment building was dark except for a single light on the top floor. The apartment he was looking for, probably. Castiel could see a figure moving behind the drawn curtains as the Impala rolled into the driveway. The figure came closer, peeking through the curtains at him, and Castiel’s hold on the steering wheel tightened. The drive here had been too fast for him to stomach the situation he’d found himself in.

Now that he was really here he felt almost sick to his stomach, but just at the thought of never seeing Claire again, he steeled himself. This was the end of the nightmare. 

He got out of the car, closing the door and locking it. He took a deep breath, then hurried towards the entrance of the building. He couldn’t waste any time. 

When he made it to the last floor, breathless and a little sweaty, there was someone waiting for him at the door—tall, with broad shoulders and hair on the longer side for a man. He had his hands in his pockets and was wearing a gentle smile on his face when Castiel finally gathered the courage to step closer. 

He looked up at the man’s warm eyes, then at the open door behind him, a sense of foreboding settling heavy over him.

“Hello, Cas. Dean said you might be dropping by,” Sam Winchester said, stepping to the side like he was inviting Castiel inside.


	8. Chapter 8

**1989**

**9:18 AM**

“Bobby, are you sure about this?” Dean asked, his eyes glued to his brother curled in the backseat of the car, headphones over his ears. He had a notebook open in his lap, and he was writing in it like an obsessed person. 

Bobby’s expression was hidden under his baseball cap, but his fingers tightened on the wheel. “Yer brother ain’t a liar, Dean, and he certainly ain’t a thief. That man he talks about, the one inside the TV, there has to be something wrong with him.”

“But there isn’t,” Dean said, threading his fingers together nervously. “Every doctor we took him to said there wasn’t anything wrong with him.”

“There wasn’t anything physically wrong with him,” Bobby said. He glanced in Dean’s direction, his mouth pressed into a thin line under his unruly beard. “Look, kid, I’m sorry. Some injuries ya can’t see with your eyes. They go deeper inside our brains, and your brother… well, this seems like the best choice.”

“You think he’s crazy,” Dean accused him in a low voice, careful not to be heard by his brother.

“Now, that ain’t what I’m saying, kid, but the doctors say it’s what’s best for Sammy, so we gotta try it.”

Dean hated this. He hated that Sammy had to be put in a hospital and that people thought he was crazy, but most of all he hated Chuck Shurley for making his brother suffer. He hated him with such passion that sometimes it was hard to think of anything else but going back to his old neighborhood, knocking on his door and beating the guy to the ground. 

If only he was a little older. 

**1990**

**6:05 PM**

Christmas at Bobby’s had been a drab affair. Despite the older man’s best efforts, Dean hadn’t been able to get into the festive spirit when he knew his brother was rotting away in the crazy house. They weren’t calling it that, but Dean knew that’s what it was. They thought Sam was crazy, and it was only him that could see how much his brother was being tormented. He looked thinner every time Dean visited him, smaller, paler. Like he was wasting away. 

It was with a heavy heart that Dean dragged his feet across the linoleum floor of the hospital, the harsh lights buzzing over his head. It was only because of Bobby’s reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Sam’s Christmas gift in his hands that he’d even had the courage to keep going. Maybe this would cheer Sammy up.

Sammy was sitting by his window when they came in, facing outside. In front of him, he had that old drawing of the TV Man, as Dean had come to think of him in the last couple of months.

“Heya, Sammy,” he said, forcing a thin smile on his face. “Merry Christmas.”

Sam glanced up, eyes hollow. He looked almost surprised to see them. “Merry Christmas. What are you guys doing here?”

“What, you thought just because it’s the holidays we wouldn’t visit, ya idjit?” Bobby grumbled, patting Sam on the back, his own awkward version of a hug. “Dean, give your brother his gift.”

“Here you go. I picked it out myself.”

Dean stood to the side, while Bobby dragged a chair close to Sam. His brother stared at the box in his lap. With hesitant moves, he tore through the paper and opened the box. 

“Well, what do you think?” Dean asked, his stomach fluttering with nerves as Sam stared down at the sweater he and Bobby had picked out a week ago. “It’s because the hospital can get cold during the night sometimes, and it has that Brainy Smurf you’re such a fan of on it.”

He chuckled nervously, waiting for his brother’s reaction. Bobby, looking equally as nervous as Dean, shifted in his seat, running a hand over his beard. 

“Thank you,” Sam mumbled finally. Then, glancing up at his family waiting expectantly for something more, he pulled it on, smoothing the front so that Brainy didn’t have any wrinkles over his face. “Thank you,” he repeated, and this time there was more color in his voice.

“Mr. Singer? May I have a word with you?”

Dean turned back to see Dr. Laufeyson poking his head inside the room as Bobby got up with a groan. 

When Dean and Sam were left alone, Dean took the opportunity to study his brother. He knew being in here was hard for him, but it seemed even the Holidays and his gift had done little to raise his spirit.

“So, how are you holding up, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged. “The usual. Dr. Laufeyson still thinks I hallucinated Castiel and the whole thing, and he’s thinking of changing my medication.”

“Right, so you’re hanging in there,” Dean said, mouth dry. It was killing him inside to watch his brother suffer, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He was the only one who believed Sammy, and the only other person that could prove he wasn’t lying, at least not about the murder part, was the murderer himself—not very likely to happen. “Listen I have some news. About dad.”

“What about him?” Sam asked, his face darkening. He and John had always had a strained relationship, but the last few days before Bobby finally picked them up to live with him had created a rift between them and their father that Dean didn’t think could be repaired. The only reason Bobby had found a place to rent in Lawrence was because of their schools, and now Sam’s hospitalization, otherwise they’d have packed up for Topeka long ago. Dean thought it might have been the better option, even if the idea of leaving his father behind still left something hollow inside him. He suspected it didn’t much matter, since eventually Bobby would have to return to his home and take them with him. His friend, Rufus, wouldn’t be able to keep the garage running alone for long. 

“You know how he’s been trying to call us and apologize and Bobby keeps refusing?” He waited for Sam to nod before continuing. “Well, it seems like he’s talked to a guy, some crazy scientist or whatever, and now that guy wants to write a book about you. He came by the house last night to talk to Bobby.”

“What?” Sam asked, shock evident in his face. “What did Bobby say?”

“Took his shotgun out and told him to get the hell off his property,” Dean said. “Of course we wouldn’t agree to something like that, you’re not some freak for people to write books about. I just thought I should tell you in case that guy tries showing up here, too.”

“How did I end up in this mess?” Sammy wondered, his tone bitter and far more mature than any boy his age should be. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life in here, while Chuck walks a free man. Instead of becoming a writer, I’ll end up the monster in a horror book or something.”

“Now come on, that’s not what I meant when I said the word ‘freak’,” Dean told him, reaching to grab his shoulder and squeeze. “Listen, we’ll get through this. We’ll figure something out to get you out of here. We’ll go to Topeka with Bobby and find a way to prove Shurley was lying this whole time and sent his ass to jail. You’ll go to college and become the next Vonnegut, and this whole thing will be in the past.”

“Really, Dean?” Sam asked, shaking his head like he didn’t believe a word. “How are _we_ going to prove that Shurley killed his wife? I already went to the police and they believed _him_.”

“Hey, just because those two assholes couldn’t see past their noses doesn’t mean we won’t find a detective that can.”

“Where are we going to find another detective, Dean?” 

“We’ll find a way. Hell, worse comes to worst, I’ll become a detective and throw Shurley’s ass behind bars,” Dean said, resentment and injustice burning hotly behind his ribcage. It wasn’t a bad idea now that he considered it. The bastard certainly deserved punishment for everything he’d put Sammy through, and Dean wouldn’t trust anyone else to do that job. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Great, so I have another ten years in here before you can arrest him.”

“Oh, come on, show a little faith,” Dean asked. “We’ll figure a way to get you out of here. Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Sam said, playing with the hem of his new sweater. “It’s just that we don’t have any proof, Dean, and the only witness, _me_ , is currently in the crazy house.” 

A spark appeared in his eyes, something Dean hadn’t seen for a while, and Sam tilted his head to the side, considering his next words.

“Unless…”

“Unless what?” Dean asked, already eager to jump into action. 

“There’s someone else,” Sam told him, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Castiel knew about the murder before it even happened.”

Dean nearly scoffed. “Cas, your friend from the future?”

“You said you believed me.”

“Of course I do,” Dean said quickly at the sight of the hurt crossing Sam’s face. “But there’s no way to find him, Sam. Sure, Castiel is not the most usual of names, but the dude could be anywhere.”

“Okay, so I don’t know where he is right now, but I know two places where he _will_ be eventually,” Sam said, jaw set with determination in a way that made him look far older than he was. Dean had to confess he prefered him with the puppy eyes and cute frown. “I know that he met his wife at the Roadhouse. He’s friends with Anna and Jo, so he has to be at the Roadhouse at some point, and eventually, he’ll move into our old house. That’s how we got into contact in the first place.”

Dean shook his head. “That’s hardly a plan. I like my idea about becoming a detective better.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Sam said, opening his arms in an exasperated gesture. “You can become a cop if you want, but we _have_ to find Castiel, too. It’s the only way to prove I’m not lying.”

“Okay, fine, fine. We’ll try your plan, too. Any ideas about how we’re going to do it, though? Because I have no idea what the guy looks like, and you’re stuck in here.” Dean had cut any kind of contact with both Ellen and Anna when Bobby took them in, since the looks on their faces ranged from pity to suspicion and those were the two things he couldn't handle, so asking them to keep an eye out for someone named Castiel wasn’t an option. He wasn’t going to stand outside the Roadhouse asking every dark-haired, blue-eyed man he saw if maybe he would eventually communicate with his brother in the past through an old TV either. That was a one-way ticket to joining Sammy in here.

“So I’ll get out,” Sammy said. “If living with Dad taught me anything is that going with the flow sometimes is better than resisting.”

“You and Dad butted heads all the time,” Dean said, not believing they were actually having this conversation. 

“But you went with the flow and that kept him happy. So I’m going to act the way they want me to until they release me. All I have to do is stop talking about Castiel.”

“Look, I’m not saying that lying to get out of here is bad,” Dean said, rubbing circles into his temples. “I’m saying your motivation for doing it is wrong. About getting justice for Mrs. Shurley and you, I’m on board. But the whole _find-the-TV-Man_ plan is kind of crazy.”

“It’s not crazy. It’s the only way to fix this,” Sam insisted. “Castiel started this, so he’s going to end it. I’m going to find him whether you want me to or not. The question is, will you help me?”

“Jesus, Sammy.” Dean exhaled roughly, looking away. He could feel a muscle vibrating under his jaw. When Sam put it like that, he didn’t have much of a choice, did he? “Of course, I’ll help you. But only because on your own you’re going to get into double the trouble.”

A huge grin split Sam’s face, bright and toothy, and so relieving to see after his brother had spent so many months barely talking. “You’re the best.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you’re giving me any other option, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam shot back, a knee jerk reaction that warmed Dean to the core. 

“Just focus on getting out of here, and we’ll figure out the rest of it from there,” Dean said, unable to stop the smile forming on his own face.

When Bobby returned a few minutes later, he was surprised to find the two brothers in a much better mood than when he left, but he was smart enough not to comment on it. He removed his hat, dropping it on the table by the door, and moved towards Dean. “Get out of my chair, idjit. I’m too old to be standing up,” he said, and Dean moved without complaining. 

If everything went according to plan, Sam wouldn’t be here for long.

**1992**

**3:35 PM**

Dean returned home from school in Bobby’s old truck, rock music blaring through the radio. It was a sunny day, the temperature climbing enough that he’d removed his flannel and tied it around his waist. His leather jacket, one of the few things he’d taken from their old house when they moved to Topeka with Bobby, was in the backseat, along with his backpack. 

Sammy had his nose buried in a book in the passenger seat. His hair was still too long, and his limbs too awkward for his body. Sam hadn’t changed much in the last couple of years, except for gaining a couple of inches and becoming hyper-focused on a single objective—to find the TV Man. His obsession was maybe a little unhealthy, but Sam had thrived since moving away from Lawrence, meeting new people at school, making friends and even bringing them over, so Dean couldn’t complain about that one dark spot in their new life. It wasn’t brought up that often anymore, anyway, since neither had told Bobby their plan, and the only car they had was his. Dean could use it to drive to and from school, but the rest of the day, Bobby needed it, too, to run his errands after closing his garage for the day.

Finding strange cars parked in front of the garage wasn’t uncommon, but finding his father’s Impala waiting for them in front of their door was a first. Dean slowed down as he passed by the sleek, black beauty, but there was no one inside. John was probably inside the house then. 

“Wait for me here, Sammy,” Dean instructed as he parked the truck around the back. 

The house was eerily empty when Dean went inside, the low murmur of the TV forgotten on in the living room permeating the other rooms. There was a single cup of still steaming coffee left on the side table by Bobby’s favorite armchair and next to it the keys to the Impala. 

Alright then. 

Even after nearly two years, the thought of facing John made Dean’s stomach turn. Despite his father’s numerous attempts to make amends with him and Sam, he couldn’t find it in him to forgive him, not when Sam was still suffering. Judging from all the attempts at communication Bobby had stopped, he’d thought the old man agreed with him. Maybe he’d been wrong.

He walked further inside the living room to catch a line of light running on the floor from the half-open kitchen door. Stepping closer, he heard the sound of running water, the scent of Bobby’s one-pot pasta filling his nose.

“Don’t stand out there, idjit,” Bobby shouted, making Dean jump. “Your daddy ain’t here. It’s just me and that old car out front.”

“Dad left the car?” Dean asked, pushing the door with his shoulder and leaning against the frame. Like Bobby had promised there was no one else in the kitchen. The table was already set for the three of them, and Bobby was finishing cleaning the board he’d used to cut the ingredients.

He turned the faucet off, dried his hands on the towel sitting on the counter next to him, then turned to face Dean, throwing the towel over his shoulder. He crossed his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow in Dean’s direction. “Came all the way out here to drop it off. Didn’t even have to kick him out.”

“Seriously?” Sam asked, taking the word right out of Dean’s mouth.

Dean spun around, turning his glare on his brother. “I thought I told you to wait in the car.”

Sam shrugged in lieu of an answer, pushing past Dean to drop his bag by the door and wash his hands. 

“Come and grab a bite, or there won’t be any food left for you,” Bobby warned, putting the pot in the middle of the table. He jerked his head in Sam’s direction. “This one has been eating two times his weight recently.”

“Good thing he’s still a scrawny little bitch then,” Dean huffed, playing up his annoyance. He took the seat next to Sammy nonetheless. He managed to secure a generous serving for himself first, earning a side-glare from Sam and an eye roll from Bobby, and said, “So, what’s up with Dad leaving the Impala here? Does he not know any good mechanics in Lawrence?”

“He left it for you, actually,” Bobby said with a grunt. “It’s a birthday present he said.”

“My birthday’s not for another month,” Dean said flatly.

“Early birthday present then.”

“So you’ll have the Impala now?” Sam asked around a spoonful of pasta. “That’s pretty cool. We can go driving around the city.”

There was a sparkle in his eyes barely concealed by the mop of hair falling over his forehead that Dean could recognize. Sam couldn’t care less about driving around Topeka, but driving around _Lawrence_ , Dean knew that was something Sam’d be interested in.

He pushed his food on his plate, considering keeping the Impala. He loved that car, always had always would, and he didn’t have a problem with taking his dad’s leather jacket with him so that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he knew the moment he accepted that car meant daily trips to the Roadhouse, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to feed Sammy’s obsession.

“It’s a good car,” Bobby said, addressing his plate. “I don’t much like your daddy, but even I have to admit he’s trying, and if you two idjits have the Impala I can actually use my own car once in a while.”

“So you think I should take it?” Dean asked.

“I think yes,” Sammy jumped in, but Dean ignored him.

“I think it’s a good car,” Bobby repeated. “And you’ve spent plenty of years working on it. It used to be your dream to inherit it, as far as I remember.”

“Dreams change.” Dean looked pointedly at Sam, and Sam pointedly ignored him. “But I guess you’re right. We do need another car.”

He already knew exactly what Sam was going to ask him the moment they were out of Bobby’s earshot, but he wasn’t ready for the puppy eyes and pout Sam turned on him when he refused.

“Dean, please,” Sam whined following him into his bedroom. “This is what we’d planned all along.”

“It’s what _you_ planned all along,” Dean shot back, untying the flannel from his waist and tossing it on his chair/not-quite-dirty-clothes hanger.

“This is what we agreed on,” Sam insisted, throwing himself on Dean’s bed. “This is why I got out of the hospital.”

“You got out of the hospital because you never belonged there. Now move your ass to the side.”

There was a grumble of complaint but Sam rolled to his side to give Dean some space to sit on his _own fucking_ bed and remove his boots. 

“You promised me back then that we’d find Castiel, and don’t tell me we can’t because now with the Impala we don’t have an excuse not to go to the Roadhouse and look for him.”

Dean sighed. He was tired of this conversation already. Sammy wasn’t going to give up, though. It was evident in the way he glared at Dean unblinking. 

“Fine,” Dean said in the end. “But we’re only going once. If we don’t find him tomorrow that’s that, we’re not trying again.”

Sam squealed with excitement—fucking squealed, so much for almost being a teenager—and threw himself on Dean’s back, arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Thank you, Dean. You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve said that before.” He shrugged him off, but not before ruffling his hair with an affectionate huff. 

It wouldn’t hurt to drive out there tomorrow. It was only going to be that one time.

**1997**

**7:59 PM**

“This is torture,” Dean complained, an arm thrown over his eyes, the radio turned up to fill the silence in the car. “Do you know what it’s like to wait here for hours everyday, knowing that the best burger of my life is waiting for me just behind those doors? Why can’t we at least go inside?”

“We’re not Sam and Dean Winchester anymore,” Sam said, eyes trained on the Roadhouse entrance across the street. “We’re Singers, and that part of our life is behind us. If we go in there someone might recognize us.”

“Okay, first of all Ellen and Jo haven’t seen us in what, eight years? And I mean I get it, you don’t want Chuck to know we’re still looking into that, but Ellen’s cool,” Dean pointed out, his stomach rumbling to show his agreement. God, he’d kill for a burger right about now. Maybe it’d be worth it to convince Sam to take a break and find a diner or something, even if no other burger would ever compare to the miracles Ellen Harvelle performed in the kitchen.

“Lawrence is a small town, everyone knows everyone.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what you keep saying, but nobody knows your Castiel.”

“Oh my God,” Sam exclaimed out of nowhere, hitting Dean on the chest with the back of his hand as he shot up to stick his face against the window. “Dean, it’s him.”

“What? Wait, are you sure?” Dean leaned closer, trying to see the man Sam was pointing at, but the only thing he could make out was tousled black hair and a tan trench coat—clearly TV Man needed some fashion advice.

“It’s him,” Sam breathed out, fogging the window with his exhale. “Dean, I’d have recognized him anywhere. He’s younger, but it’s him.”

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” Dean caught Sam’s hand just as he was opening the door.

Sam blinked. “Going to talk to him? What’s the point of finding him if we don’t talk to him?”

Dean pulled him back inside the car, cursing under his breath. “Okay, first of all, we never agreed to talk to him. Even if _anyone_ talks to him, it’s gonna be me. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

Sam’s face twisted with confusion. “What? Why not?”

“I’m sorry if I don’t exactly trust a dude who talked to a minor through a TV.”

“Oh, Dean, that’s so not what happened.”

“Not another word,” Dean said, raising a finger in warning. “I’ll talk to him.”

Sam dropped back in his seat and crossed his arms. A teenager on the verge of becoming a man and still acting like a child. Yeah, there was no way Dean was letting him anywhere near the TV Man.

They sat in silence for a moment, Sam glaring at his shoes, Dean at the door of the Roadhouse. Finally, Sam rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to talk to him, maybe do it before he leaves and we never see him again.”

“Christ, you’re bossy,” Dean said. He pulled the leather jacket tighter around him. His stomach churned uncomfortably as he eyed the Roadhouse, but he wasn’t going to let Sammy see it. He was going to get the TV Man talking, and he was going to keep his brother safe in the process.

**8:09 PM**

The Roadhouse was as busy as ever when Dean stepped inside. Ellen was behind the bar, pouring a beer. She glanced his way, and he dropped his eyes, drawing his shoulders up while simultaneously dropping a little in his knees to appear shorter. 

Heart at his throat he slid to the back of the bar, watching for a table Jo wasn’t serving. He sat at one that was close to the door but still had a good view of the whole bar. A waitress came over to take his order, and he quickly shooed her away telling her to bring whatever was on tap. Time to put his plan in motion.

A flash of tan caught his eye, and he zeroed in on it. The TV Man was sitting with another man, a friend perhaps, trench coat draped over the back of his stool, heads bent over two tall glasses of beer. He had his back to Dean.

Dean fought with himself for a minute. He had to talk to the guy, but… what was he supposed to say? 

_Hey, I know this sounds crazy, but in fifteen years or so you’re going to stop my brother from witnessing an eight-year old murder._

Yeah, even to his ears that sounded crazy. 

He’d have to settle for his second best option. He’d have to watch the guy to determine whether or not he had any idea of what happened. Or… was about to happen? Damn, Dean still needed some help to wrap his mind around the whole wrapped time thing. 

“Here you go.” The waitress surprised him as she dropped his glass of beer on his table, then whisked away to go on with her job. Dean didn’t even have the time to thank her. 

He took a careful ship, savoring the taste. The urge to just go ahead and order a burger was strong, but he had to play it cool. Didn’t want to get Jo, or worse, Ellen herself, marching up to his table to serve him and ruin Sam’s _Big Plan_. Besides, beer wasn’t so bad. Depending on TV Man’s schedule, Dean could probably come to the Roadhouse for a drink after a long day at the police academy, and keep an eye on him. Now that was killing two birds with one stone, and it was a hundred times better than waiting outside the Roadhouse like he’d done for the past few years.

The TV Man’s friend leaned closer, saying something that made TV Man laugh and turn around, scanning the whole room. For a horrifying second, he and Dean locked eyes before his gaze glided over him and continued its path.

Dean quickly ducked his head. 

When he checked again, TV Man was absorbed back in his conversation. Dean pressed a hand over his frantic heartbeat. Well, shit that was close. 

At least he knew what TV Man looked like now; bright blue eyes, high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Not bad looking, not bad looking at all. 

A few minutes passed, during which Dean wondered if maybe he was being too stalkerish by being here, before the TV Man’s friend excused himself and got up. Probably going to the bathroom, but not before he tapped his finger by his empty beer, making TV Man laugh. 

It looked like a good laugh. A nice smile. 

TV Man turned again, this time focusing directly on Dean.

Dean almost dropped his glass. Shit, did he just get caught staring? Again?

A weird expression crossed over TV Man’s face, before he dropped his eyes coyly. 

Dean gaped at him. 

He watched as TV Man fumbled through his pocket for his wallet as he got up, the tips of his ears red.

Mechanically, Dean pushed up, too. He waited until TV Man finished ordering his second round of beers, strategically sitting behind a column to stay out of Ellen’s eyesight. There was a weird tingling spreading through him. 

Fuck, was he… was he seriously going to talk to the guy?

TV Man gave Ellen a warm smile along with a few bills, then grabbed the glasses, beer sloshing dangerously close to the edge, and started back towards his seat. The column Dean was hiding behind was right next to the path he was walking on. They’d be face to face soon enough. 

TV Man glanced to the side, at something close to where Dean’s table was, completely missing the woman about to walk into him. 

Without realizing it, Dean stepped out of his hiding spot, fingers closing around TV Man’s elbow and stopping him from colliding with the woman, who brushed past them at the last second. 

Dean still had his hand on TV Man’s elbow.

Blue eyes blinked in Dean’s direction. Pink, full lips stretched into a shy smile. 

“Hello,” the man said, and something inside Dean tilted. 

The faraway thought that he’d just stepped into the eye of the storm occurred to him, but it was too late.


	9. Chapter 9

**2014**

**7:54 PM**

The Shurley house looked smaller than what Dean remembered, though not much had changed except for a fresh coat of paint. The dog house stood abandoned at the edge of the front yard. A plate with the name of the dog that used to live there was hanging on for dear life from a single screw. The entire lower floor was illuminated, figures passing by the windows every now and then. 

It looked like quite the party from the outside. 

“Ready whenever you are, Detective.”

Dean discreetly wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. This was it. This was the moment he’d worked for all these years. Shit, if only Sammy could have been there with him. 

Steeling himself, he gestured for the two others officers to follow him up the stairs. 

It was Anna that answered the door. She looked between him and the officers, no hint of recognition in her eyes as she took them all in. “Can I help you, officers?” she asked. Clearly she couldn’t connect the neighbor she used to go to school with, with the detective standing before her now. 

Becky came to stand behind her daughter. “Detective Singer? Did you find the man who broke into Amelia’s house?” she asked, giving Dean a welcoming smile.

“Yes,” Dean said, his whole body buzzing. “But that’s not why I’m here. You, Mrs. Rosen—or is it Shurley now?—are under arrest. As are Chuck and Amara Shurley.”

Deadly silence spread through the house in an instant. Becky went pale, in complete contrast to the furious flush colouring Anna’s cheeks. 

“What are you arresting them for?” she asked, obviously fighting with herself to keep from slamming the door closed to Dean’s face.

Poor Anna, Dean thought, eyes flickering from her to her mother, a hand covering her trembling lips, to Chuck and Amara appearing behind Becky. Dean stared straight at Chuck, spine growing taller with the satisfaction of finally saying the words he’d been waiting for over two decades. 

“For murder.”

**8:15 PM**

Chuck Shurley had lines around his pale eyes now, most of them from squinting when he laughed, Dean guessed. He’d had a good life living on borrowed time. No.  _ Stolen _ time. Stolen from Sam. 

Dean waited for the second detective to join him in the interrogation room, watching as all three of his suspects fidgeted and glanced at each other. Two officers being present during the interrogation was only a formality, but Dean took enormous joy in drawing this out as much as possible.

Revenge was, after all, a plate better served cold. 

His colleague closed the door behind him, took the seat next to Dean, and pressed the recording button, reciting all the boring stuff they needed before they could begin.  But then… then everything else faded away. It was just Dean, Chuck Shurley, and an envelope between them that would make things right again. 

“Chuck Shurley,” Dean started, leaning back. “We got an anonymous tip about something buried next to your sister’s cabin out by the lake. Does that ring any bells.”

Something on Chuck’s face twitched. “No. Not really.”

Dean couldn’t bite back his smirk. This was too easy. “Really? Because we went out there today and we found—” he opened the envelope, pulling out pictures from the crime scene,    
“—this.”

He spread the pictures out, watching like a hawk for even the tiniest of reactions. Though Chuck and Amara remained mostly impassive, Becky faced away, pressing a palm over her mouth like she was nauseous. A gold watch glimmered around her wrist as it caught the white light from overhead.

“We’re still waiting for DNA results, but judging from the wedding ring on her finger, we think this is Naomi Shurley.” Dean tapped his finger on one of the pictures lower on the pile, showing a gold ring. “The one you said left you to live in Canada with her lover.”

Dean cocked his head to the side, forcing his face to remain professional. This was not the time to do a victory lap. At least not externally. 

“We have no idea how that happened,” Amara said, her jaw tight. She was the only one that never even glanced at the pictures. 

“Right, of course you don’t,” Dean said. “How about I tell you my theory, hmm? Anyone got any objections?” 

The Shurleys shifted uncomfortably in their seats. 

“I think you killed your wife, and then your sister helped you bury the body.”

Amara scoffed. “That’s absurd—”

“I did it,” Chuck cut her off, hands fisted. When he met Dean’s gaze, there was nothing but resignation there. “I did it, I killed her. Then I cut her body up and drove up to my sister’s cabin and buried the body. Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

“Well, I still need you to sign a confession,” Dean said. “But it’s a start.”

“I’ll sign anything you want,” Chuck said. “Just let them go. My sister and my wife had nothing to do with this.”

“Aaah, but this is where you are wrong,” Dean said, not even bothering to tell himself he wasn’t enjoying this. “It might be a little hard to prove your sister was an accomplice—being the owner of the cabin is not enough after all— _ but,” _ he opened his arms out, drawing the silence out to increase the tension. “But there was an investigation back then, and the two detectives found records of Naomi Shurley crossing the border to Canada and emptying her bank account while she was there. Funny thing, Naomi Shurley was already dead when she did all those things. So. Who took her name and made it  _ look  _ like she’d moved to Canada?” Dean turned to narrow his eyes in Amara’s direction. “I do wonder.”

“You have no proof,” Chuck said. “Other than my word, you have no other evidence to link either of them with this murder.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” Dean asked, anticipation burning through him. “You forget that there was a witness back then. Sam Winchester. Ring a bell? The boy who sent the police to investigate you, and who  _ you _ sent to a psychiatric ward.”

“He was crazy,” Chuck mumbled, hands shaking. “He was saying that a man from the future told him I killed my wife. Absurd.”

“But you  _ did _ kill your wife. Sammy was telling the truth.”

“‘Sammy’… Oh, my God” Becky Rosen’s eyes widened with realization. “ You’re his brother. Dean Winchester.”

Dean held her gaze. “It’s Singer now,” he said, stiffly. He didn’t want to get sidetracked. He needed that confession, and he needed it before any of them realized that all the evidence was circumstantial at best after all this time. He made a show of checking his notes, though he could have recited his next words by heart. “Sam Winchester was hiding inside your house, while you cut your wife in small pieces and stuffed her inside a suitcase. He found a wristwatch on the floor, one you said belonged to your _wife_. Now, as it happens we still have a photo from that wristwatch Sam Winchester brought in as evidence.”

He took the final photo out of the folder and passed it to Chuck.

“Can you tell me what’s inscribed on the back of it.”

Chuck swallowed. “R.E.R.”

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that for the record?” Dean asked.

Chuck glared at him. “R.E.R.” he said, louder this time.

“I can’t see how you get R.E.R. from Naomi Shurley.  _ Rebecca Rosen, _ on the other hand… Your middle name is Emma, if I’m not mistaken. What an odd coincidence,” Dean said. He turned to Becky holding out his hand, palm up. “Can you show me your wristwatch?”

Becky dropped her hand, like if she had it under the table Dean wouldn’t notice it.

Dean wiggled his fingers. “Your wristwatch.”

Becky raised her face, meeting his eyes, smudged mascara running down her face. Her chin trembled for a second, then whatever control she had left wilted away. “It was an accident,” she cried, curling in on herself. “I didn’t mean—she wasn’t supposed to be home. She was supposed to be visiting her family, and we—we thought—”

“Becky, you don’t have to,” Chuck said, hurrying to pull her against his chest. “I already confessed. This is enough.”

Becky whimpered in his arms, gasping for breath around her sobs.

Dean was still staring at her, willing her silently to keep on talking. Give him a whole confession that would doom all of them. 

And she did. 

“She came back, and she had a—a knife—” Becky said. “She attacked Chuck, and I—I tried to stop her. I tried to take the knife away from her.” Snot dripped between her lips, her shoulders shaking with every word she was saying. “It was an accident—I didn’t mean to—God forgive me—I didn’t mean to hurt her. She fell on me while I was holding the knife, and she—she stumbled away. She tripped and fell down the stairs. It was an accident, you have to believe me, it was all an accident.”

“And then you decided to hide the body,” Dean finished for her, conscious of the red light of the recording machine. This was his proof, finally. It took him years, but he now had the proof he needed to back up everything Sammy had reported back then. And it was all thanks to Cas. Wonderful, witty, kind Cas. 

For the first time since he was a kid himself, he felt a big weight lift from his chest. He felt like he could float straight out of his chair. 

Becky Rosen on the other hand was crumbling down right before his eyes. Distantly, Dean felt sorry for her. And Anna. Mostly Anna. At least she wasn’t there to watch her mother on the verge of hysteria. 

“Can we take a break, please?” Amara asked, her voice weak. “She has asthma. She needs to calm down, or we’ll continue this questioning at the hospital.”

Dean looked between the Shurley siblings, content to find resignation written on their faces. They’d lost. It was game over. 

“Sure,” Dean said, checking with his colleague, who nodded. “I’ll send an officer with some water as well. We’ll continue in ten minutes. I'd suggest you contact a lawyer while you're at it, too. You're going to need him.”

He stepped out of the room, exhaling in relief. He did it. Holy shit, he really did it. Back against the wall, he grabbed his phone out of his pocket to check the time, and found a dozen or so missed calls from Sam. 

His stomach dropped. This could be very good or very bad. Knowing his luck, it was probably the latter. 

“Hey, I tried calling you before, but you didn’t pick it up,” came Sam’s voice once he’d picked up.

“Everything alright?” Dean asked.

Sam took a breath, like he was steeling himself. “He’s here.”

Dean held his breath. “So he remembers?” 

“Uh, no, sorry.”

“He doesn’t?” Dean opened and closed his mouth. Nothing more came out. He’d hoped that if Cas found out about Amelia, he’d… shit, Dean didn’t know what he’d thought. When Cas had shown up at the station, insisting he was married to a doctor Dean had never heard of before, his vision had gone dark around the edges. 

He’d had to excuse himself under the pretense of searching for files on Claire Novak, when he already knew he wouldn’t find any. Maybe sending someone to track Amelia down and find out everything about her life hadn’t been his best moment, but really who could blame him? Anyone in his shoes would have done the same. He’d only found out about Amelia cheating on her husband by accident, but he wouldn’t deny it was very convenient. Except sending Cas to discover it for himself hadn’t worked like Dean had thought it would.

“Listen,” Sam said, his voice low. “Maybe you should come over. I don’t think I should be the one to explain everything to him.”

Dean blinked. “Right.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I have to finish something here, and I’ll be right over there. Just keep him busy for a couple of hours or so.”

“Keep him busy? What am I supposed to do? Get him coffee?” Sam asked. 

“If that’ll work, then yes,” Dean said. 

Sam huffed. “What could possibly be more important?” 

“I got them.”

A pause. “What?”

“Sammy, I _ got _ them. They just confessed. You know there’s nothing I want more than to come there, but I  _ can’t _ leave now. I just need a little more time to finish this.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sam said. “It’s over?”

“It’s almost over, but I need—”

“Time, yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just don’t be late,” Sam said, exhaling noisily. “God, I hate this.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Dean promised. 

**10:49 PM**

The Impala was parked in front of the building, scratch free and safe, if a little too close to the car to its right. Dean glanced at the apartment on the top floor. It could be any other night he was returning home late for work.

Except it wasn’t.

He climbed out of the cab he’d taken to get here, throwing the lapel of his jacket up against the cold. Rain licked his face, leaving behind a chill that sipped quickly under his clothes. Lightning slashed the sky in half behind his house. 

Awesome, not ominous at all. 

**10:51 PM**

Castiel could feel Sam’s eyes on him while he paced the living room. He’d been here for longer than two hours, and he felt ready to vibrate out of his skin. This was taking too long. Dean was late. 

Honestly, he didn’t know what he was waiting for anymore. He had Sam Winchester, he had a couple of hours left, and all he was missing was the television and the camera. He could force Sam to tell him where the TV was. He could sneak up on him, tie him up, he could, could…

He  _ could. _ But he  _ hadn’t. _

It was this place. This house. Castiel looked around him and he felt almost dizzy. Something was nudging at him from the edge of his mind. It was like he had a word at the tip of his tongue, but it kept sneaking away. Except it wasn’t a word, it felt more like a memory. A distant dream, almost. 

There was a bookcase behind the couch, and his books were there. Not books he’d read, but books he  _ owned.  _ He could see the place where his _ 1984 _ copy had been torn and repaired along the spine, and the coffee stain on his  _ Deception Point _ that made the rosy color turn orange and wrinkly. Pushed against the wall was a large aquarium, inside which swam a goldfish. The same goldfish that was on his lockscreen, he suspected. 

And then there were the pictures.

Dean gazing at the camera over the largest burger Castiel had seen in his life.

Dean with his arms around Sam’s shoulders at Sam’s graduation.

Castiel posing in front of a lake, a fishing rod in his hand. 

Castiel and Dean together, beanies and scarves leaving only their eyes exposed. 

He swallowed, looking away. 

The rattle of keys and a lock clicking caught both Castiel’s and Sam’s attention and they turned to the door. Dean looked between them, still hovering on the threshold. Finally, his eyes settled on Castiel.

“Hey.”

“You lied to me,” Castiel said immediately. No pause, no greeting. There was no time for any of that. His hands were shaking. He wanted to stand firm, to come across determined and strong, but he was crumbling. “You’ve had me running in circles for two days, and you knew all along. You were the connection all along.”

“Cas,” Dean said, voice breaking. He sounded hoarse and tired and scared, and Castiel hated that seeing Dean inside this apartment only made the needling thoughts stronger. They were unrelenting in pushing against his awareness, like a lake swelling with the force of a storm and threatening to overflow the dam holding it back. 

“Cas, please. You have to listen to me.” Dean raised a hand as if to touch Castiel, but he kept his distance. “It’s not like that.”

“Not like that? Then please enlighten me, Dean. What is it like?” Castiel’s pulse was hammering inside his ears, but he was cold. So cold.

Somewhere in the room, Sam cleared his throat. “Maybe I should go.”

“No,” Castiel said, turning to him with bared teeth. “You started this, and you’re going to end it.”

“Okay, Cas, just give me a moment to explain,” Dean said. “One moment in private, that’s all I’m asking for.” He gestured towards the balcony door, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s. “Look, we can go outside. You’ll still be able to see Sam through the door, and I promise you, he’s not leaving. Okay?”

Castiel didn’t want to. He shouldn’t want to. But his heart was slowly breaking, piece by tiny piece. Just by looking at the way Dean’s lower lip was trembling. Just by seeing the desperation in his eyes. He stepped outside first, watching as Sam took his seat at the couch again, facing away to give his brother the privacy he so wanted.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. He licked his lips. “I’m so sorry I lied to you. When you showed up at the station, and you didn’t recognize me, I… I don’t know what happened to me.”

Dean took a step forward, and Castiel stepped back. The flash of lightning illuminated the night for the fraction of a second, casting Dean’s face in long, pale shadows. 

Dean reached for him again, and again his hands fell short of touching Castiel. “You were talking about another life, another family. You had all those memories that you shouldn’t have,  _ couldn’t  _ have. You couldn’t recognize me, Cas, do you know what that felt like? You forgot about me in the blink of an eye _.  _ You forgot about  _ us _ . _ ” _

“There’s no us,” Castiel said, shaking his head.

“But there is,” Dean insisted. “I found you. I didn’t know what that would mean for either of us back then, but I found you. How could you forget everything we’ve been through? There’s nothing connecting you to that life. You never lived it.”

“There’s Claire,” Castiel said. 

“There’s no Claire, Cas,” Dean said, yelled, his voice drowned by the pounding rain and the roar of thunder. “There’s no Claire. I sent you to Amelia hoping you’d see the kind of person she is, hoping that might jostle your memory, but…” He shook his head, visibly fighting to regain his control. “It’s fine. It’s fine, we just have to wait for the storm to pass, and things will go back to normal. When the storm is gone, you’ll be alright.”

“I don’t want to be alright. I want you to give me the camera and the television.” Castiel’s hands turned into fists at his sides. “Then I’ll go back to 1989 and stop you from meeting me.”

“There’s no television,” Dean said, thinly veiled desperation making his voice shrill. “There’s no camera. I got rid of all that years ago.”

“Someone broke into Amelia’s house before I got there,” Castiel said. The night was cold, the wind howling, and he was finally seeing things clearly. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’d left the television there, or you wanted to test the connection, didn’t you? It’s what I’d do. But you have them.”

“Babe, please. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying again. Why? You promised you'd help me get my life back.”

“What life?” Dean asked, eyes wet. “This _is_ your life. Me, this apartment, _us._ Ι’m sorry I didn’t tell you any of this before, but how could I? You wouldn’t have believed me. When I found you, I wanted to prove Sam wasn’t crazy, I wanted answers, but I couldn’t have imagined that I would find so much more. I love you, Cas. Maybe I’m not good at showing it, maybe I’ve made mistakes, but I love you. And I know you feel the same way. I swear I have no idea where the television and the camera are. You have to believe me.”

The memories were banging inside Castiel's head, breaking down his walls with every passing second, until Castiel wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch Dean or hold him tightly enough that there was no part of their bodies not touching. His body was screaming for Dean, aching. 

But…

“We’ll go back to 1989, and you’ll make sure that I meet Amelia. I have to meet Amelia at all costs. I have to get Claire back.”

“Babe, please,” Dean said, and he darted forward, taking Castiel’s face in his hands. 

Castiel gasped. Something cracked, and the memories started spilling through, muddled and confused.

_ There was the sizzling of a pan over rock music, and the scent of bacon was filling his nose. The bed next to him was cold, but Castiel felt content, full in a way he’d never felt before. Dean’s voice wandered into the room through the half open door— _

_ —a hand was on his elbow. He turned around to find green— _

_ —warm lips pressed against his neck, a reassuring weight pressing him into the mattress—  _

“Please don’t do this to me,” Dean said, pleading eyes gazing straight at Castiel.

Castiel couldn’t breathe. He saw Dean’s eyes falling to his lips, he saw him leaning closer, a thumb rubbing over his cheekbone comfortingly. Castiel hovered on the edge of indecision, drifting between the broken fragments of two different lives fighting inside him. He let himself fall, and he closed the distance between them, meeting Dean in the middle. __

Lips brushed together, the caress of fingers becoming a hold, safe and secure. Castiel pressed himself against Dean, giving up control, letting the memories flood him.

_ He was looking at that table in the back of the Roadhouse, but the guy was no longer there. Then a hand was closing around his elbow. Castiel turned around, expecting Gabe, but it wasn’t. The green-eyed man who’d be staring at him all night gave him a small smile, and Castiel’s world tilted a bit on its axis. _

_ The Impala was cruising down the Highway, rock music blasting through the speakers. Dean slid his hand across the seat, palm up, and Castiel threaded their fingers together. _

_ His eyes were misty as he watched Sam stand by the officiant, Dean at his side as his best man. Dean caught his eye and Castiel mouthed ‘I love you’ at him right before the bride walked in. _

_ Fingers brushing over his naked back, making him shiver. The ghost of a breath against his ear. Dean’s lips next to his ear as he pulled Castiel closer. _

_ Castiel slid his arms around Dean’s waist, hooking his jaw over his shoulder. Dean pressed back against him, smiling down at the water he was waiting to boil. _

_ His eyes searched the series of identical uniforms until they locked on green eyes. The world exploded in confetti and hats thrown in the air, and Castiel was brimming with pride.  _

_ Dean ran into the room, excitement written in every line of his body. He waved the book that had just arrived at Castiel, pointing at the author’s name under the title: Sam Singer. _

_ Feet tangled together under the sheets. Castiel gasped, a hand sliding up the mattress. He rocked with Dean, breathless and lost, as Dean found his hand and laced their fingers together.  _

_ There was Dean, making fun of him for picking up a goldfish on a whim.  _

_ There was Dean, sitting cross-legged on the floor to assemble the large tank for the goldfish.  _

_ There was Dean, half asleep at Castiel’s side while he watched a guy set up a volcano filter tank on Youtube. _

_ There was morning coffee at a bakery, and Dean stuffing his face with pie. _

_ There was dinner at a restaurant, and Dean smiling at Castiel with soft eyes from across the table. _

_ There was Castiel, dropping on one knee.  _

Castiel turned his face, his grip on Dean white-knuckled. He had to fight for every breath of air that he managed to squeeze into his frozen lungs. Tears spilled down his face, 

Dean had his forehead pressed on the side of Castiel’s face. His touch gentler than before, he made Castiel turn towards him, their noses touching. Dean brushed his thumb over Castiel’s skin, wiping away a tear.

Castiel took a shuddering breath. His whole body longed for Dean, his brain kept assaulting him with more memories; intimate, silly, fights, dreams, dates, nights, mornings. A whole life. A beautiful, love-filled life.

How could he have ever forgotten this? How could he have ever forgotten  _ Dean _ ?

“Do you remember now?” Dean whispered in the space between them, broken and small.

“I do, I—I love you, Dean.” Castiel clutched at Dean’s shirt desperately, sobbing. A whirlwind of memories was crushing him, pulling him under, and all he could do was hold onto Dean, waiting for the storm to end. 

“Then stay with me. I can’t lose you, Cas. Please. Please, I need you.”

“I love you so much,” Castiel said. He could feel the truth of his words reverberating through his very bones. He could remember lying in Dean’s arms one night, ear pressed over Dean’s chest, and whispering that he thought they were meant to be. Nothing could change that, not the storm, not a whole different life fighting to prevail inside him.

Had it been just Amelia Castiel was giving up, the choice would have been easy. 

“Please stay with me,” Dean repeated, his hold on Cas almost bruising. 

But it wasn’t just Amelia.

“I’m sorry. I can’t forget her, Dean. I’ll never forget Claire. I held her in my arms when she was a tiny little thing, and taught her how to ride a bike. I kissed her scraped knees and held her hand while taking her to school for the first time. I let her sleep in my bed when she had nightmares and read her stories until she fell asleep. She’s a part of me. I’ll never be happy without her.”

Dean’s face twisted painfully, his expression crumbling. “What are you saying?”

Every fiber of his being protesting, Castiel teared himself away from Dean. “Please give me the television and the camera. I helped you save your brother, and now you have to save my daughter.

“But I don’t have them,” Dean said. Screamed. “Cas, I haven’t even seen that old television since I moved out of that old house, and yesterday was the first time I stepped foot in there after almost twenty years.” A roll of thunder, and Dean deflated. Crumbled. He fell to his knees. “Babe, you know me. You know when I’m lying. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I don’t have the television.”

Dean was right. Castiel could tell when he was lying, and though his heart protested it, he knew Dean was telling the truth. He really didn’t have the television and the camera. 

White noise enveloped him. The world slowed down around him, as Castiel realized that this was the end of the road. He was out of time, and he was out of solutions. He stepped back until his legs hit the bench against the deck rail. 

The last fragile shreds of hope he had shattered. He was never going to see his daughter again. Claire was as good as dead. He’d have to spend the rest of his life knowing he failed her.

Castiel climbed on the bench mechanically, feeling the wind whooshing behind him, the rain hitting his back, soaking him in a matter of seconds. Thunder roared in the distance.

“Cas, you have to believe me,” Dean said, sniffing. He raised his face to finally look at Castiel again, and he froze, eyes opening wide. “Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, never breaking eye contact, “I can’t live without her. You're the love of my life, Dean, but I can't do it.” He opened his arms, and gave himself over to gravity. 

“Cas, don’t,” Dean yelled. He sprang forward, arm extended, but it was too late. 

Dean’s fist closed around empty space.

Lightning illuminated his shocked face.

Castiel was weightless. He couldn’t tell he was falling, except for the way his stomach jerked upwards, against the direction of his body. His back exploded in white, sharp pain, the breath knocked out of his lungs violently. 

The last thing he saw was Dean, looking down at him from the balcony, mouth open in a scream Castiel couldn’t hear. Everything hurt. Even the raindrops hitting his broken body felt like knives. It hurt so much that when the darkness came, Castiel welcomed it like an old friend.

**11:05 PM**

Sam heard Dean’s scream, and he snapped his head around. He was instantly on his feet, throwing the balcony door open and stepping outside. Dean was alone, pressed against the railing. 

“What happ—shit.” Sam’s stomach clenched painfully when he bent over to look down. Castiel had landed on a car, his body bent in unnatural angles, eyes glassy as he stared at the dark sky.

The car’s alarm was blaring through the night. Lights started turning on in other apartments and houses around the street. 

“What the hell happened?” Sam asked, grabbing Dean’s elbow and spinning him around; Dean stared at him, white faced and swaying a little like he was dizzy. “Dean, what happened? Did he trip? Did he—”

“He jumped,” Dean mumbled. He raised his hands, fingers raking through his short hair, then holding, then tugging. “He fucking jumped,” he sobbed. “He wanted to go back. He wanted your old camera, and I told him I don’t know where it is, because I don’t. He said someone broke into our old house, and then he—he just fucking _ jumped _ .”

“Wait, what? Why did he want to go back?”

“He wanted to change the past again. He wanted to make sure we didn’t meet. He—he wanted to get his daughter back. Fuck, Sammy, what am I gonna do?”

Sam stared at him for a moment, numb, as his brain fought to catch up with what Dean was telling him. Cas had jumped. Cas had jumped because Dean hadn't helped him change the past. Realization hit him like a ton of bricks. Maybe it wasn't too late.

“Dean, listen to me. We can still save him,” Sam said. He fumbled with his phone. Two hours left. It should be enough. He turned back to his brother, who was trembling, his eyes unfocused; it was clear he hadn’t heard a word Sam had just said. “Dean, snap out of it!  _ I  _ have the television and my old camera.”

That seemed to get through. Dean blinked up. “You— what?”

Sam grabbed him from his shoulders and shook him. “It was me. I broke into Dad’s old house. I managed to create a connection with the past, I heard me—younger me—talking, but I got scared.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “You… you what?”

“I didn’t want to risk changing anything, not when we had finally fixed it all,” Sam said, frantically trying to explain. “But now—we can save Cas. We can’t let an innocent man die because of this. We still have time, but I need you to get it together and help me. I still have everything in my car, we’ll go back to the house, and we’ll talk to me.”

Slowly, Dean nodded. Color returned to his cheeks. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll go back and tell you to forget all about Castiel. We’ll never search for him, and we’ll never cross paths with him. But that means—”

“That you won’t meet him,” Sam finished for him. “And you won’t fall in love.”

The wind howled in response. 

“But Cas will be alive,” Dean said. “I’ll save him. He’ll be alive and happy, and he’ll have his daughter. And he won’t even remember me to miss me.”

“And we’ll catch Chuck,” Sam added. “You know where the body is, right? Younger me can tell the police where to find it.”

“No,” Dean said immediately. He raised a warning finger at Sam. “No, we can’t do that. If they catch Chuck they might catch Becky. Cas said Amelia was at the Roadhouse because Anna was dating Jo. We can’t risk changing that. Becky and Anna have to stay out of this.”

“But—”

“No, buts. Cas is the love of my life, Sam. We have to save him at all costs, even if that means we never catch them.”

Sam exhaled roughly. His stomach sank through his feet. He’d finally reached his goal. He’d finally gotten justice after twenty years, but… 

But Dean loved Cas. And Dean would only be happy if they saved him. So, it was either his revenge or his brother’s happiness. When he weighed his options under that light the choice was easy.

“Okay. Okay, we’ll do it your way.” 

**11:59 PM**

Sam followed his brother to the front door of their childhood home with opposing feelings battling inside him. On one hand, just seeing his old house made him want to bolt out of here as soon as possible. On the other, the weight of the old television in his arms kept him walking. They had less than an hour to save Cas, and it all depended on Dean convincing two strangers to let them inside their house.

Dean knocked on the door with enough force to actually knock it down. He kept hitting his fist against the wood, making it rattle on its hinges, until finally, a disgruntled man answered it.

“What the— oh! Detective Singer. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” The man calmed down a bit at the sight of Dean, though it was clear he was very annoyed to be disturbed at this hour.

With no time for small talk, Dean pushed inside, shoving his badge into the man’s face. “I need to see one of your bedrooms.”

Sam followed him inside, offering the man a tight smile. This was not the time to hesitate, or the new owners of the house would realize Dean had no legal right to be here.

“James, what’s going on?” A woman appeared from the direction of the living room, eyeing Dean and Sam suspiciously. “Detective. Is this about the stalker?”

“Yes, it is,” Dean confirmed to Sam’s utter confusion. Stalker? His brother had been secretive in the past couple of days, but what the hell? “Me and my partner need to use the upper floor. Alone.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Excuse me?”

“Unless you want to talk about where your stalker was earlier today,” Dean said, coldly, without looking away from her, and she went pale.

Something clicked inside Sam’s mind. This was Amelia.

“No, of course,” Amelia said, shooting her husband a guilty look. “We’ll be down here.”

“Sammy, let’s go.”

“Excuse me,” Sam muttered, following Dean up the stairs. 

He helped Dean set up the old television and connect the camera to it, then he stepped back. He watched as his brother kneeled in front of it, and waited.  The screen filled with static, then a flash of light, and Dean took a sharp breath.

“Castiel?” young Sam asked, only for his face to fall when he saw Dean. “Who are you?”

“Sammy, it’s me, Dean.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me. And you have to listen to me carefully.”

Sam put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “No, let me. I started this, and I’m going to end it.” 

He sat cross-legged in front of the old television, his mind reeling. He was about to undo his whole life. But it was worth it. For Dean.

“Hey, Sam. Um, it’s me. I mean, you, from the future.” He gave his younger self an awkward smile, ignoring the way Dean was fidgeting next to him. “I know you have a lot of questions, but we don’t have much time, so I need you to listen to me carefully. Things are going to be bad for a while. But you’ll pull through. Dean will be there for you, always, and he’ll help you with anything you ask of him, so I need you to… not ask anything of him. You have to forget all about Castiel. You can’t get in touch with him, ever, or his life will be in danger. Do you understand?”

Younger Sam cocked his head to the side confused. 

Sam himself had no recollection of this moment. Would he remember it once he woke up tomorrow? Would he remember this life at all? He guessed that depended on whether or not they’d succeeded in changing the past. Which depended on the answer his younger self was about to give him.


	10. Chapter 10

**2014**

**6:17 AM**

Castiel blinked awake. His mind was still fuzzy around the edges, but he knew that his whole body was in pain. He rolled over, his back popping, muscles protesting against the hard surface he was lying on. He opened his eyes and frowned at the ceiling.

Where was he?

A cursory look around him revealed that he was in the empty bedroom, on the floor, in front of an old television. Had he fallen asleep?

He pushed himself up groaning, supporting his head with a hand. This didn’t feel right. His head was throbbing, images of another life washing over him. There was a detective, a goldfish, and a boy from the past and a murder. Had it all been a dream?

Wait. 

Claire!

Castiel scrambled to his feet, rushing to Claire’s bedroom. The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled, but it was there.

“Dad, you okay?”

He spun around. Claire was standing right there, wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair wet. 

“Claire, you’re okay! Thank God!” He pulled her to him, crashing her in a hug. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the strawberry scented shampoo and her coconut conditioner. 

She was there. She was alive and real, and she was  _ there _ .

“Dad, I’m fine. I was just taking a shower before school,” she said, pushing him away. She gave him a confused look, but Castiel was so relieved in that second that he didn’t care if she thought something had come loose inside his head.

“You two are too loud for this early in the morning,” Amelia yawned, appearing at their bedroom door. She frowned at him. “What happened? You never came to bed last night.”

“I—I must have fallen asleep watching TV,” Castiel said. And he must have. This was the only logical explanation. 

“Just don’t make a habit out of it, or you’ll get a back problem,” she told him, stretching her hands over her head. She was in her pajamas, hair in a messy bun, and at the sight of her, something bitter formed in the back of Castiel’s throat. She walked to check outside the window. “God, this storm’s not over yet? Oh, look there’s Chuck, taking his dog out for a walk.”

She waved through the window, unaware of everything inside Castiel freezing.

“Chuck,” Castiel repeated. His ears were ringing. Chuck Shurley, Sam Winchester.

_ Dean. _

His legs moved without him ordering them to. He burst into his bedroom, eyes frantically searching for the right box, before he went digging through it. His fingers closed around the small sewing kit. The  _ Spring Hills Suites _ logo stared up at him.

Castiel swallowed past his dry throat. 

_ Dean looking at him from under his lashes while taking his statement. _

_ Dean sitting next to him during a physics lecture. _

_ Dean giving him a folded paper with an address on it. _

A million more fragments of memories.

He closed his fist around the mini sewing kit.

Amelia was preparing breakfast in the kitchen when Castiel found her. She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Hey, eggs are almost ready. Can you call Claire?”

Castiel left the sewing kit on the kitchen island between them and pushed it towards her. “We need to talk.” 

Amelia’s smile faltered, but she hid it well. Castiel wouldn’t have even noticed it had he not been looking for that reaction exactly.

“Talk about what?” she asked, forcing another smile on her face.

Castiel watched her. “How long?”

Her shoulders tensed.

“How long, Amelia?”

She dropped her spatula, which clattered on the floor. She refused to turn and look at him.

“I…” she started, but her voice died.

Castiel nodded. There was nothing else he needed to hear. “I’d like to make this as easy on Claire as possible,” he said. “There’s no need to get lawyers involved, unless you want to. I’d like for us to separate without any hard feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” Amelia said finally, turning tear filled eyes to him.

“I’m sorry, too,” Castiel said. “But it’s probably for the best. Should we tell Claire tonight?”

Amelia opened and closed her mouth uselessly. 

“Whenever you’re ready, then,” Castiel told her. “I just ask that we discuss it between us first.”

Amelia blinked. 

Castiel tapped a finger on the kitchen counter absently. A hundred thoughts were passing through his mind, but there was only one that was urgent. According to his phone, this was still the second day of the storm. He had work to do.

**5:42 PM**

Castiel dragged the shovel behind him as he walked towards the cabin by the lake. He didn’t have dogs, but he had his memory. He knew the exact place he needed to dig. He got to work with gritted teeth, ignoring the way his muscles started screaming after a while. The suitcase wasn’t too deep, but the rain was making the ground muddy and difficult to dig. It took him twice as long as it had taken the officers. 

Finally, exhausted, and dirty, and soaked from the rain, he pushed the shovel down one more time, and hit something solid.

Castiel exhaled. He dropped to his knees and cleared the mud away, until he saw the faded color of the suitcase.

Time to call the big guns.

**7:27 PM**

Two police cars and two officers arrived to check Castiel’s claim before another car rode up the path to the cabin. 

Castiel was sitting under a tent the officers had set up while they finished digging up the suitcase and started investigating the scene. He had a blanket around his shoulders and his eyes trained on the bow legged figure climbing out of the car.

His stomach fluttered nervously at the sight of the detective, even as a comforting heat blossomed behind his ribs.

The detective walked up to him, hunching his shoulders against the rain.

“Hello. I’m Detective Singer. I’m here to—” he paused, green eyes widening as they took in Castiel. “I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

Castiel bit back a smile. He was breathless, but surprisingly, calm. He met the detective’s gaze confidently.

“You don’t remember me yet. But you will.”

**2015**

**6:23 PM**

“Be gentle with her, Claire.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

Castiel pulled his head out of the box he’d been digging through for his charger to peek outside the window. He could just make out the Impala, parked right outside the house, windows rolled down in hopes of some stray breeze finding its way inside it despite the heat. Claire was behind the wheel, and Dean was sitting in the passenger seat, brows furrowed.

“She’s a lady. You have to take good care of her,” Dean said.

Claire rolled her eyes. “I will, if you’ll let me.”

The car roared to life, the engine revving up and making Castiel wince. That didn’t sound right.

“Whoa, slow down,” Dean said, hand darting out to kill the engine. “She’s a car, not a helicopter. She shouldn’t be making that much noise.”

“I don’t know, she’s an old car,” Claire said, meeting her father’s eyes through the windshield and winking at him; she was enjoying this too much for Castiel’s liking. 

“Okay, she’s not an old car. She’s a  _ classic,”  _ Dean protested, gesturing animatedly to underline his words. “You’re lucky you’re learning to drive with a car like her.”

Castiel shook his head, amused. His knees popped as he stood up. Deciding it was time to take a break, he abandoned the boxes he still had to unpack. The porch was bathed in sunlight when he stepped outside and leaned his hip against a column. Dean and Claire were still arguing inside the car, their driving lesson clearly going downhill even before it started.

“You two having fun?” Castiel called, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Obviously,” Claire answered, sticking her arm out the window to wave at him. “Dean says I’m a natural.”

The bitch face Dean turned on Castiel would beg to differ. 

Castiel chuckled. “Alright, Schumacher. Your mom will be here in an hour to pick you up. Why don’t you go to take a shower and pack your bag? I’m sure she’ll appreciate not being stuck in a car with a sweaty pig.”

Claire pouted. “But we haven’t even pulled out of the parking spot.”

“Dean will be happy to continue your lesson tomorrow after school,” Castiel said. 

“I’m not coming home straight after school tomorrow.” Claire stepped out of the car, ignoring the rolled down windows and banging the door; Dean’s expression was akin to a stroke. “I have plans.”

“ _ Plans _ ,” Castiel repeated, watching for the way Claire tossed her hair behind her shoulder. Exactly like Amelia when she was embarrassed. “With Kaia?”

Color spread over Claire’s face immediately. “Maybe.”

“Aha,” Castiel said. “Do I have to have a  _ talk _ with her?”

“A  _ talk? _ Oh my God, Dad, it’s the twenty-first century. Why would you need to have a  _ talk _ with her?”

Dean followed her up the stairs, having made sure the Impala was in proper condition again. “Relax, kiddo. Your dad’s a gentleman. If there’s going to be any threatening, it’s going to be by me.”

“You?” Claire scoffed. 

“Hey, it’s only right,” Dean said, opening his arms in a  _ what-can-you-do  _ gesture. “You threatened  _ me _ when I started dating your daddy not to break his heart, now it’s my turn to return the favor.”

Claire raised her hand, pointing two fingers at her eyes then at Dean. “I’m still watching you, Singer,” she warned.

“I’m counting on it,” Dean said, waving her off. 

Castiel turned to watch her over his shoulder as she disappeared inside the house. Then he turned to Dean. “She likes you, you know.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a shy smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, I know. I like her, too. I just wish she wasn’t as bad a driver as you.”

“I’m serious, Dean,” Castiel said, crossing his arms over his chest. “When Amelia and I separated and we got together, I was worried, but Claire—”

“But Claire is handling things just fine,” Dean said, pulling him into his arms. He pressed a kiss between Castiel’s brows, smoothing the worry lines away. “She’s a bratty sixteen year old that has us all wrapped around her finger. You did not scar her for life by getting a divorce.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Dean insisted. “She’s happy. And if she’s not, I’m sure she’s going to tell us. Ain’t like she’s a subtle one. Besides, Amelia is the one who cheated, Cas. You are  _ not _ the guilty party here.”

“You’re right.” Castiel pressed closer against Dean, resting his head on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of car oil and sun-baked skin. Dean always smelled amazing after he worked on the Impala. 

Castiel still had trouble believing how lucky he’d been. Not only because he’d managed to find Dean again, but because Dean remembered him. It had been almost at the end of the storm, but Dean’s memories of their life together had come back. As had his feeling for Castiel. Navigating a relationship that was both new and old was tricky, but nearly a year later, they were finally ready to take the next step.  Dean had sold his apartment, and he and Castiel bought a house together only a ten minute drive away from Amelia’s house. They hadn’t finished unboxing everything yet, but Castiel was sure they’d tackle the last of their stuff during the weekend. They had to, since Dean’s uncle, Bobby, was coming to visit them next week.

Which reminded him…

“We have to buy a mattress for the guestroom. I have no plans of crippling your uncle with back pain.”

“Right,” Dean said, in that tone of voice that meant he’d completely forgotten about it. “I’ll make Sammy help me pick one tomorrow. It’s only fair he helps me carry it, too, since he was rude enough to grow taller.”

“Invite him and Madison for dinner,” Castiel said. “I’ll ask Anna and Jo if they want to come, too.”

Castiel’s friendship with Anna had been tested since he was the one to basically turn her mother in, but when she’d seen how happy Jo was to reunite with Sam and Dean, her heart softened. They all hang out together often now, usually at the Roadhouse—at Dean’s insistence that he’d been denied Ellen’s burgers for enough years already. 

Dean hummed instead of an answer. He tightened his hold on Castiel, both of them content to stay like this for a while longer. There was no hurry to get back inside. It was a nice day. Not a single cloud in sight.

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Thank you for reading. Don't forget to check out the art masterpost [here.](https://bees0are0awesome.tumblr.com/post/615754751717654528/some-digital-paint-for-kitmistry-s-awesome)


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